PEEPS  AT 
PEOPLE  - 

ROBERT  CORTES  HOLL1DAY 


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PEE  PS  AT  FE  OPjLE 
EGBERT  O3RTES  HOLLIDAY 


PEEPS  AT  PEOPLE 


BY 


ROBERT  CORTES  HOLLIDAY 

AUTHOR  OF  "WALKING-STICK  PAPERS,"  "BOOTH 

TARKINGTON,"  "JOYCE  KILMER:  A 

MEMOIR,"  "BROOME  STREET 

STRAWS,"  ETC. 


WITH   PICTURES  BY 
WALTER  JACK  DUNCAN 


NEW  YORK 
GEORGE  H.  DORAN  COMPANY 


Copyright,  1919, 
By  George  H.  Doran  Company 


Printed  in  the  United  States  of  America 


I  WKOTE  A  BOOK  SOME  TIME  AGO  WHICH 
WAS  DEDICATED  TO  "THREE  FINE  MEN." 
THIS  IS  A  SMALLER  BOOK.  THEREFORE, 
I  DEDICATE  IT  TO  TWO  FINE  MEN: 

EUGENE  F.  SAXTON 
CHRISTOPHER  MORLEY 


tt/3488 


These  little  what-you-call-'ems,  with  the 
exception  of  the  opening  one  and  the  con 
cluding  ones,  all  appeared  originally  in  the 
Saturday  Magazine  of  the  New  York 
Evening  Post.  They  are  reprinted  here 
by  the  courtesy  of  the  editors  of  that 
otherwise  estimable  newspaper.  For  per 
mission  to  reprint  the  opening  paper  The 
Bookman  is  to  blame. 


CONTENTS 

PAGE 

EVEN  So!    OR,  As  You  MAY  SAT,   A 

PREFACE 13 

I  THE  FORGETFUL  TAILOR 19' 

II  TALK  AT  THE  POST  OFFICE    ....  23 
*  III  As  TO  OFFICE  BOYS     /: ' ^^a.^-\    i^ffc'-»28 

IV  A  CONQUEROR'S  ATTACK 32 

V  THE  CASE  OF  MR.  WOOLEN  ....  36 

VI  WHEN  THE  TRAIN  COMES  IN.      ...  41 

VII  AN  OLD  FOGY 44 

Vin  HAIR  THAT  is  SCENERY 47  ' 

IX^A  NICE  MAN 50 

No  SNOB 53 

XI  EVERY  INCH  A  MAN 59* 

,v-*T 

XII  His  BUSINESS  is  GOOD 65 

XIII  A  NICE  TASTE  IN  MURDERS  .     .     .      .  71 

XIV  IDA'S  AMAZING  SURPRISE  -r    f**F    .      .  74 
XV  NOT  GULLIBLE,  NOT  HE  ./ -'.si-.  rfrty*6&   * 

XVI  CRAMIS,  PATRON  OF  ART 81 

XVII  BARBER  SHOPS  AWESOME 85 

XVHI  MUCH  MARRIED  STRATFORD  ....  88 

XIX  A  HUMAN  CASH  REGISTER     ....  92 


CONTENTS 


PAGE 

XX  IT  STANDS  TO  REASON 94 

XXI  A  THREE-RINGED  CIRCUS     ....  96 

XXII  SNAPSHOTS  IN  X-RAY 100 

XXIII  BACHELOR  REMINISCENCES  ....  103 

XXIV  A  TESTIMONIAL 107 

XXV  FRAGRANT  WITH  PERFUME  ....  110 

XXVI  WOULDN'T  LOOK  AT  HIM     ....  112 

XXVII  CONNUBIAL  FELICITY 114 

XXVIII  A  FRIEND,  INDEED  116 


PEEPS  AT  PEOPLE 


PEEPS  AT  PEOPLE 


EVEN  SO!  OR,  AS  YOU  MAY,  SAY, 
A  PREFACE 

I  KNEW  a  man  who  used  to  do  some  writing, 
more  or  less  of  it — articles  and  essays  and  little 
sketches  and  things  like  that — and  he  went  to 
another  man  who  was  a  publisher.  (I  know 
all  of  this  because  it  was  told  to  me  not  long 
ago  at  a  club.)  And  he  said  (the  first  man) 
that  he  would  like  to  have  published  a  book  of 
some  of  his  pieces.  He  hadn't  done  much,  if 
any,  writing  for  a  number  of  years.  Matters 
had  been  going  rather  bad  with  him,  and  he 
had  lost  more  than  a  little  of  his  buoyancy. 
The  spark  had  waned ;  in  fact,  it  was  not  there. 
(This  he  did  not  say,  but  so  the  matter  was.) 

Anyhow,  he  did  say  that  this  collection  of 
material  had  about  it  the  rich  glow  of  his 
prime,  that  it  was  living  with  the  fullness  of 
his  life,  that  as  a  contributor  to  these  papers 

[13] 


PEEPS  AT  PEOPLE 

and  magazines  he  had  (or  had  had)  a  personal 
following  decent  enough  in  size,  that  the  book, 
by  all  reasoning,  ought  to  go  far,  and  so  on. 
The  volume  was  published.  It  was  called — 
no,  I  have  forgotten  what  it  was  called.  How 
ever,  I  heard  that  it  got  a  very  fair  press,  and 
sold  somewhat. 

Then,  in  about  a  year  or  so,  round  came  the 
man  again  to  the  publisher  with  another  batch 
of  little  papers.  He  had  aged  perceptively 
within  this  time,  and  matters  had  been  going 
with  him  rather  worse  than  before.  No,  he 
hadn't  been  able  to  write  anything  lately. 
(For  a  moment  a  haunted  look  crossed  his  face, 
a  look  as  though  in  some  sad  hidden  secret  he 
had  been  discovered.)  But  (brightening  up 
again)  here  he  had  a  better  book  than  before; 
it  was  a  much  better  book  than  before,  as  it 
was  an  earlier  one.  These  things  breathed  the 
gusto  of  his  young  manhood.  They  were  per 
haps  a  bit  miscellaneous  in  character,  he  had 
got  them  out  of  the  files  of  various  journals, 
but  they  had  a  verve,  a  fire,  a  flare  for  life, 
which  he  couldn't  better  now.  A  great  deal 
more  he  said  to  this  effect. 

Times,  however,  change  (as  has  frequently 
been  observed).  What  is  sauce  for  the  goose 

[14] 


EVEN  SO! 

is  not  always  sauce  for  the  gander.  That  is  to 
say,  other  days  other  ways.  I  do  not  know 
that  I  gathered  (that  evening  at  the  club)  what 
was  the  upshot  of  the  matter  in  this  instance 
between  the  man  of  whom  I  am  speaking  and 
the  publisher.  But  it  is  to  be  feared  that  time 
had  blown  upon  those  things  of  his  of  other 
days  as  it  had  upon  the  temple  of  his  soul  and 
its  inhabitant. 

Well  (so  the  story  goes),  the  world  went 
forward  at  a  dizzy  rate.  There  was  flame  and 
sword.  Ministries  rose  and  fell.  Dynasties 
passed  away.  Customs  handed  down  from 
antiquity,  and  honored  among  the  ancients, 
were  obliterated  by  mandate  and  statute.  And 
man  wrought  things  of  many  sorts  in  new 
ways. 

On  a  Friday  at  about  half  past  two  (a  pleas 
ant  day  it  was,  in  the  Spring,  with  new  buds 
coming  out  in  the  parks  and  a  new  generation 
of  children  all  about)  again  in  came  our  old 
friend  to  see  his  friend  the  publisher.  Well, 
well,  and  how  was  he  now,  and  what  was  new 
with  him?  Why,  a  rotten  bad  run  of  cards 
had  been  his  ever  since  he  had  been  round  be 
fore:  rheumatism  and  influenza,  dentist  and 
oculist,  wife  down  and  brother  dead,  nothing 

[15] 


PEEPS  AT  PEOPLE 

much  accomplished.  He  sat  for  a  moment  and 
there  was  no  light  in  him.  No  (you  saw  it 
now,  quite),  he  was  a  lamp  without  oil. 

He  undid  the  package  containing  his  manu 
script.  Here  was  a  book  (those  yellow  clip 
pings),  well,  here  was  a  book!  This  was  a 
younger  book  than  either  of  his  others.  On  it 
was  the  gleaming  dew  of  his  youth.  Perhaps 
a  little  scrappy,  very  brief,  and,  many  of  them, 
rather  unequal  in  length — these  things;  and 
very  light.  Ah,  that  was  the  point,  that  was 
the  point!  The  lightness,  the  freshness,  the 
spontaneity,  the  gaiety  of  the  springtime  of 
life !  One  could  not  recapture  that.  It  would 
be  impossible,  quite  impossible,  for  him  now  to 
write  such  things  as  these.  He  did  not  now 
think  the  same  way,  feel,  see  the  same  way, 
work — the  same  way.  No,  no;  there  comes  a 
hardening  of  the  spiritual  and  intellectual 
arteries.  This  was  a  younger  book,  a  younger 
book  (and  as  he  leaned  forward  with  finger 
raised,  a  light,  for  an  instant,  flickered  again 

in  his  eye)  than  any  of  his  others. 

****** 

There  was  a  man  at  that  club  when  this 
story  was  told  who  remarked:  "It  is  said  (is  it 
not?)  that  Swift,  re-reading  'Gulliver'  many 

[16] 


EVEN  SOI 

years  after  it  was  written,  exclaimed:  'My 
God,  what  a  genius  I  had  at  that  time!' ' 

And  another  man  there  at  the  time  reminded 
us  of  the  place  somewhere  in  the  books  of 
George  Moore  where  it  is  observed  that  "any 
body  can  have  talent  at  twenty,  the  thing  is 
to  have  talent  at  fifty." 

R.  C.  II. 

New  York,  1919. 


[17] 


I 

THE  FORGETFUL  TAILOR 


HE  is  a  tailor.  His  shop  is  down  at  the  cor 
ner.  When  trousers  are  left  with  him  to  be 
pressed  and  to  have  suspender  buttons  sewed 
on  he  is  always  obligingly  willing  to  promise 
them  by  the  morrow;  or  if  you  are  in  somewhat 
of  a  hurry  he  will  promise  that  the  job  shall 
be  done  this  very  night.  He  is  the  politest  and 
most  obliging  of  men.  He  will  send  those 
trousers  up  by  a  boy  directly.  He  is  such  a 
cheerful  man. 

After  the  time  for  those  trousers  to  appear 
has  long  gone  by  and  no  boy  has  arrived,  it  is 
possible  that  you  may  work  yourself  into  a 

[19] 


PEEPS  AT  PEOPLE 

passion.  You  clap  your  hat  upon  your  head, 
storm  out  of  the  house,  and  stride  toward  that 
tailor  shop.  You  become  a  little  cooled  by  the 
evening  air,  and  you  begin  to  wonder  if  you 
have  not  been  a  trifle  hasty.  Perhaps  you 
yourself  made  some  mistake  concerning  your 
address ;  things  very  similar  have  happened  be 
fore  now,  when  you  have  laid  the  blame  upon 
another  and  eventually  realized  that  the  fault 
was  your  own.  It  would  never  do  to  place 
yourself  in  such  a  position  with  this  tailor — a 
comparative  stranger  to  you.  So  you  will  not 
become  abusive  to  him  until  you  discover  who 
is  in  the  wrong. 

But  if  the  fault  is  his,  mind  you,  he  shall 
learn  your  character;  you  are  not  a  man  to  be 
trifled  with.  This  fellow  can  have  no  sense  of 
business,  or  anything  else,  you  think.  This 
shall  be  the  last  work  he  will  ever  get  from  you. 
Such  a  man  should  not  have  a  business.  You 
will  speak  to  your  friends  about  this;  it  will 
run  him  out  of  the  neighborhood. 

You  have  been  walking  rapidly  and  are  tol 
erably  heated  again.  You  arrive  at  the  shop 
expecting  to  find  the  tailor  on  the  defensive, 
with  some  inane  excuse  prepared.  But  you 
have  resolved  that  it  won't  go  down.  You  are 

[20] 


THE  FORGETFUL  TAILOR 

considerably  surprised,  therefore,  to  discover 
the  tailor  seated,  comfortably  reading  a  news 
paper,  by  a  genial  fire.  He  glances  up  at  you 
as  you  open  the  door.  His  face  is  without  ex 
pression  at  first.  Then  he  recollects  you,  and 
your  business  flashes  upon  him.  He  smiles 
good-naturedly,  then  bursts  into  a  hearty 
laugh.  Well,  of  all  things,  if  he  hasn't  forgot 
ten  all  about  those  trousers  until  this  very  min 
ute!  It's  such  a  joke,  apparently,  such  a  ridic 
ulous  situation.  He  so  enters  into  the  spirit  of 
the  thing  and  enjoys  it  so  that  you  have  not 
the  heart  to  rebuke  him.  You  even  begin  to 
appreciate  the  circumstance  yourself. 

It  is  so  warm  in  the  tailor-shop  and  the  tailor 
is  so  jolly  you  become  almost  jovial.  The  tai 
lor  promises  to  send  those  trousers  around  the 
first  thing  in  the  morning.  He  would  promise 
to  have  them  ready  for  you  in  ten  minutes  if 
you  so  desired.  Upon  leaving,  you  are  tempt 
ed  to  invite  the  tailor  out  to  have  a  cigar  with 
you.  He  is  so  droll,  such  a  felicitous  chap, 
such  a  funny  dog,  that  forgetful  tailor. 

In  the  morning  those  trousers  have  not 
shown  up.  You  pass  the  tailor  shop  on  your 
way  downtown.  The  tailor  is  standing  in  his 
doorway,  smoking  a  cigar  and  looking  alto- 

[21] 


PEEPS  AT  PEOPLE 

gether  very  bright  and  cheerful.  When  he 
sees  you  his  face  becomes  still  brighter;  he  ap 
parently  becomes  brighter  all  over,  in  fact; 
and  his  eyes  twinkle  merrily.  "Well!  well!" 
he  laughs,  and  slaps  his  thighs.  He  is  the  most 
forgetful  man.  He  hardly  knows  what  will 
become  of  him. 


[22] 


II 


TALK  AT  THE  POST  OFFICE 


THE  attention  of  a  little  group  within  the 
dusk  of  the  post  office  and  general  store  was, 
apparently,  still  colored  by  an  event  which  mu 
tilated  posters  on  a  dilapidated  wagon-shed 
wall,  visible  through  the  doorway  in  the  hot 
light  outside,  had  advertised.  A  "Wild  Bill" 
show  had  lately  moved  through  this  part  of  the 
world.  A  large,  loosely-constructed,  earnest- 
looking  man  was  speaking  to  several  others,  se 
riously,  taking  his  time,  allowing  his  words 
time  to  sink  well  in  as  he  proceeded. 

"Now  I  have  a  brother,"  he  was  saying, 
"who  I  can  produce,"  he  added  impressively 
[23] 


PEEPS  AT  PEOPLE 

(one  realizes  that  it  would  be  hard  to  get 
around  this  sort  of  evidence) — "who  I  can  pro 
duce,  who  will  take  bullet  cartridges — Buffalo 


Bill  don't  use  bullet  cartridges — Annie  Oak 
ley  don't  use  bullet  cartridges — and  who  will 
sit  right  here  in  this  chair — sit  right  here  in 
this  chair  where  I  am  now — and  show  you,"  he 
nodded  once  to  each  listener,  "something  about 
shootin',"  concluding,  one  who  reports  him 
felt,  somewhat  more  vaguely  than  his  start  had 
led  one  to  expect. 

"Well,  Pawnee,"  began  another  of  the  group 
(from  which  sobriquet  it  will  be  seen  that  the 
large  man  was  a  personage  in  matters  of  shoot 
ing),  but  Pawnee  stopped  him.  It  seems  he 
had  not  finished. 

"And  if  there  is  anybody  that  would  like  to 
shoot  shot  with  the  Old  Man*'  he  continued, 
breathing  the  two  last  words  loud  and  strong, 

[24] 


TALK  AT  THE  POST  OFFICE 

"Z,"  said  Pawnee,  with  extreme  emphasis  on 
the  personal  pronoun,  "would  like  to  see  them, 
that's  all!" 

An  odd  figure  a  trifle  removed  from  the 
group  had  attracted  the  notice  of  one  report 
ing  these  proceedings,  by  a  propensity  which 
he  evinced,  perceived  by  a  kind  of  mental  te 
lepathy,  to  have  some  remarks  directed  to  him. 
One  felt  all  through  one,  so  to  speak,  the  near 
presence  of  a  disposition  eminently  social.  As 
one's  sight  became  more  accustomed  to  the  in 
terior  light  this  figure  defined  itself  into  that 
of  an  elderly  man,  somewhat  angular,  slightly 
stooped,  and  wearing  a  ministerial  sort  of  straw 
hat,  with  a  large  rolling  brim,  considerably 
frayed;  a  man  very  kindly  in  effect,  and  sug 
gesting  to  a  contemplative  observer  of  human 
ity  a  character  whose  walk  in  life  is  cutting 
grass  for  people. 

This  gentleman  (there  was  something  very 
gentlemanly  about  him,  not  in  haberdashery, 
but,  as  one  read  him,  in  spirit)  showed,  as  was 
said,  a  decided  inclination  to,  as  less  gentle 
manly  folks  say,  "butt  in." 

"Here  is  a  thing  now,"  spoke  up  this  old 
fellow,  looking  up  from  his  newspaper,  over 
[25] 


PEEPS  AT  PEOPLE 

his  iron-rimmed  spectacles  in  a  more  deter 
mined  manner  than  heretofore,  at  one  who  re 
ports  him,  and  speaking  in  that  tone  in  which 
it  is  the  habit  of  genial  men  traveling  in  rail 
road  trains  to  open  a  conversation  with  their 
seat-fellow  for  the  journey,  "that  draws  my 
attention."  In  the  racing  term,  he  was  "off." 

"You  know  there  is  a  strict  law  against 
swearing  over  the  telephone,"  he  paused  for 
acquiescence.  "Well,  there  is/9  he  stated,  very 
seriously,  drawing  a  little  nearer  as  the  ac 
quaintance  got  on — "a  strict  law.  Now  they 
say  they  can't  stop  it.  It's  a  queer  thing  they 
can't  stop  it.  They  know  who's  at  the  other 
end;  or  at  least  they  know  who  owns  the 
'phone.  They  know  that.  A  fine  of  fifty  dol 
lars,"  he  declared,  "would  stop  it."  It  strikes 
one  that  this  kindly  character  is  almost  fero 
cious  on  the  side  of  morality. 

"Now,"  he  continued,  "there  is  no  use  in 
that.  Say  what  you  have  to  say,  that's  all  that's 
necessary.  What's  the  good  of  all  those  ad- 
ject-ivesT9  He  pronounced  the  last  word  in 
three  syllables  with  a  very  decided  accent  on 
the  second.  "That  is  done,  now,"  he  conclud 
ed,  "by  people  who  are,  well — abrupt.  Ain't 

[26] 


TALK  AT  THE  POST  OFFICE 

that  right,  now?    It's  abrupt,  that's  what  it  is; 
it's  abrupt. 

"Most  assuredly,"  he  said,  answering  him 
self. 


[27] 


Ill 


AS  TO  OFFICE  BOYS 


MR.  MACCRARY  is  in  the  real  estate  business. 
It  is  incident  to  Mr.  MacCrary' s  business  that 
he  has  to  employ  an  office  boy.  This  position 
as  factotum  in  the  office  of  Mr.  MacCrary  is 
subject  to  much  vicissitude. 

The  first  of  the  interesting  line  of  boys  suc 
cessively  employed  by  Mr.  MacCrary  was  an 
office  boy  by  profession ;  by  natural  talent  and 
inclination  he  was  a  liar.  He  was  a  gifted 
liar,  a  brilliant  and  a  versatile  liar;  a  liar  of 
resource,  of  imagination.  He  was  a  liar  of 
something  very  near  to  genius.  He  lied  for  the 
love  of  lying.  With  him  a  lie  was  a  thing  of 

[28] 


AS  TO  OFFICE  BOYS 

art.  An  artist  for  art's  sake,  he,  and  for  art's 
sake  alone.  Like  an  amateur  in  short,  a  dis 
tinguished  amateur,  who  is  too  proud  to  sell  his 
lies,  but  willingly  gives  one  away  now  and  then 
to  some  highly  valued  and  much  admiring 
friend.  This  boy  would  start  with  a  little  lie, 
then,  as  he  progressed  in  his  story,  the  wonder 
ful  possibilities  of  the  thing  would  open  up  be 
fore  him;  he  would  grasp  them  and  contort 
them,  twist  them  into  shape,  and  produce,  cre 
ate,  a  thing  magnificent,  stupendous,  a  thing 
which  fairly  made  one  gasp.  He,  a  mere  boy! 
It  was  wonderful. 

On  the  last  day  he  came  into  the  office  and 
said:  "Runaway  down  the  street,  Mr.  Mac- 
Crary." 

"Is  that  so?"  said  Mr.  MacCrary. 

"Yes,"  said  the  boy,  "ran  over  a  woman, 
killed  her  dead." 

"You  don't  say!"  exclaimed  Mr.  MacCrary. 

"I  should  say  so,"  said  the  boy;  "killed  the 
baby  in  her  arms,  too." 

"What!"  cried  Mr.  MacCrary,  "did  she  have 
a  baby  in  her  arms?" 

"And  that  ain't  all,"  continued  the  boy,  "ran 
on  down  the  street  and  into  a  trolley  car." 

[29] 


PEEPS  AT  PEOPLE 

"And  killed  all  the  passengers!"  exclaimed 
Mr.  MacCrary. 

"And  the  conductor,"  added  the  boy,  "broke 
all  the  horse's  legs,  smashed  the  wagon,  driver 
went  insane  from  scare.  They're  shootin'  the 
horse  now,"  said  the  boy. 

Mr.  MacCrary  dismissed  this  boy  that  he 
might  find  a  sphere  more  suited  to  his  ability 
than  the  real  estate  business,  which,  to  tell  the 
truth,  was  evidently  a  little  bourgeoise  for  his 
genius. 

The  next  boy  was  not  particularly  gifted  in 
any  direction,  but  he  was  mysterious.  Upon  a 
client's  coming  into  the  office  during  Mr.  Mac- 
Crary's  absence  he,  the  client,  was  sure  to  be 
impressed  by  two  circumstances:  First,  that 
there  was  no  one  in  the  office  until  he  entered; 
secondly,  that  the  boy  had  strangely  appeared 
from  nowhere  in  particular,  and  was  follow 
ing  in  close  upon  his  heels.  This  consistently 
illustrates  the  whole  course  of  this  boy's  con 
duct  throughout  the  time  he  remained  with 
Mr.  MacCrary. 

The  third  boy,  that  is  the  present  one,  is  not 
exactly  mysterious,  but  he  is  peculiar.  He  at 
tends  strictly  to  his  own  business.  He  believes 
himself  to  be  here  for  that  purpose,  appar- 

[30] 


AS  TO  OFFICE  BOYS 

ently.  He  does  not  meddle  with  Mr.  Mac- 
Crary's  business.  That  is  no  concern  of  his. 
He  is  imbued  with  the  good  old  adage :  "If  you 
want  a  thing  well  done,  do  it  yourself."  He 
follows  this  excellent  principle  himself,  and 
believes  others  should  do  likewise.  This  boy 
is  very  sapient,  and  a  wonderful  student.  His 
nature  is  more  receptive  than  creative.  He 
procures  heavy  sheep-skin-bound  volumes 
from  the  circulating  library,  and  his  taste  in 
literature,  for  one  of  his  age,  is  unique.  These 
books  generally  relate  to  primitive  man,  and 
contain  exciting  engravings  of  his  stone  hatch 
ets  and  cooking  utensils.  He  is  also  fond  of 
perusing  horticulture  journals,  these  being  the 
only  magazines  which  he  enjoys.  When  the 
first  of  these  appeared  about  the  office,  Mr. 
MacCrary  picked  up  one  and  inquired: 

"What  is  this,  James?" 

"Oh!"  exclaimed  James,  "there's  some  fine 
pictures  of  berries  in  there."  James  is  too 
scholarly  for  real  estate,  and  will  soon,  no 
doubt,  follow  in  the  way  of  his  earlier  prede 
cessor  to  the  intellectual  life. 


[81] 


IV 


A  CONQUEROR'S  ATTACK 


ON  the  post-office  store  porch  an  old  brin 
dled  Dane  dog,  town  loafer,  was  asleep  on  his 
back.  Chickens  wallowed  in  the  road.  A  baby 
crawled  from  behind  a  barrel  at  the  post-office 
store  door.  A  quorum  was  met  on  the  hotel 
porch  across  the  way.  The  butcher  and  the 
cobbler  came  forth  from  dove-cot  shops  to  pass 
the  time  of  day.  The  villagers  come  in  ones 
and  twos  to  get  their  mail.  One,  a  fair, 
freckled  milk-maid,  as  it  would  seem,  from 
some  old  story,  stands  on  the  sidewalk  path, 
waiting  for  the  mail  to  be  "sorted."  A  wil 
lowy  lass,  one  would  say  a  "summer  boarder," 
pokes  her  parasol  musingly  through  a  knot- 

[32] 


A  CONQUEROR'S  ATTACK 

hole  in  the  porch  floor.  The  shop  next  door  is 
a  "dry  goods  and  notions"  store;  butter  and 
peaches  and  cherries  and  roses  and  cream  in 
the  shape  of  a  feminine  clerk  leans  beneath  the 
low  lintel,  and,  one  can  guess,  like  the  old  dog, 
dreams.  The  one  of  brave  days  of  the  past, 
perchance;  the  other,  perchance,  of  conquests 
to  come. 

A  fat  fly  buzzes  leisurely  about  the  door, 
then  suddenly  takes  a  straight  line  a  consider 
able  distance  down  the  straggling  street, 
pauses,  circles  about,  returns,  now  through  the 
early  sunshine,  now  through  the  shadow  of  a 
venerable  tree,  back  to  the  shelter  of  the  porch, 
hums  around  again,  poises  absolutely  station 
ary,  tacks  away  another  time  over  the  same 
course,  and  returns  as  before. 

Suddenly  appearing,  briskly  advancing 
upon  the  scene,  walking  rapidly  up  from  the 
direction  of  the  railroad  station,  scintillating 
punctuality,  dispatch,  succinctness,  assurance, 
commercial  agility,  comes  an  apparition  from, 
without  manner  of  doubt,  the  hurrying  ways, 
the  collision  of  the  busy  marts  of  men.  The 
chickens  scatter  from  the  road,  making  for 
picketless  gaps  in  the  picket  fence ;  the  old  dog 
opens  an  eye  and  limply  raises  a  limb ;  and  the 

[33] 


PEEPS  AT  PEOPLE 

rapid,  confident  ' 'traveling  man"  (it  can  be 
none  but  he),  resplendent  in  the  very  latest 
"gent's  furnishing,"  with  a  neat  grip  and  a 
bundle  of  what  apparently  are  rolled  calendars, 
springs  nimbly  upon  the  porch  of  the  Chap- 
paqua  general  store.  Genial,  pushing,  the 
hurrying  "good  fellow,"  though  sociability  is 
his  bent  as  well  as  business,  he  has  not  much 
time.  It  evidently  is  his  habit  to  snatch  a  brief 
moment  of  pleasant  acquaintanceship  as  he 
passes.  As  to  this,  he  has  as  quick  an  eye  for 
the  sex  as  for  commerce,  and,  as  will  be  seen, 
as  successful  a  manner  with  them  as  in  the 
other. 

"Attacking,"  said  another  conqueror,  Barry 
Lyndon,  "is  the  only  secret.  That  is  my  way 
of  fascinating  women."  Quickly,  as  with  a 
practiced  eye,  this  gallant  looks  over  the 
ground.  Chappaqua  apparently  is  rich  in  hu 
man  flowers.  A  man  of  poorer  mettle  would 
be  satisfied  with  one.  That  is  not  the  way  with 
your  conquerors.  Smugly,  flashingly,  he 
thrusts  his  grinning,  big-prowed  countenance 
forward,  and  with  one  killing  glance  that  fair, 
freckled  milk-maid  is  undone.  So  much  for 
number  one.  Quick  as  a  terrier  that  leaps  from 
rat  to  rat,  and  with  a  single  brilliant  crunch 

[34] 


A  CONQUEROR'S  ATTACK 

breaks  each  rodent's  back,  our  high-stepping 
man  leaps  his  glance  upon  the  dreaming  but 
ter  and  peaches  and  cream ;  her  rich  lashes  fall, 
but  she  does  not  frown.  No;  she  does  not 
frown.  But  be  bold  enough,  and  you  will  not 
fail. 

He  has  stepped  through  the  doorway,  set  his 
grip  down.  Brightly  he  turns  and  does  for  the 
summer  boarder.  She  springs  open  her  para 
sol  before  her  pleased  confusion,  and  retreats, 
very  slowly.  He  has  turned  to  business ;  whips 
out  his  watch,  snaps  it  shut,  replaces  it,  un 
rolls  a  calendar.  He  "makes"  the  next  town  in 
so  many  hours. 


[35] 


y. 

THE  CASE  OF  MR.  WOOLEN 

THEY  stopped  at  a  bright  little  house  with 
a  neat  little  grass  plot  before  it,  fronting  on 
the  railroad.  A  border  of  very  white,  white 
washed  stones  led  up  each  side  of  the  little 
path  to  the  little  porch  before  the  door.  On 
the  porch,  in  the  shade  of  the  neat,  screening 
vines,  sat  an  old  fellow,  a  stranger  to  them. 
"Is  Mrs.  Woolen  at  home?"  one  of  the  two 
inquired  politely,  as  he  thought.  But  this  man 
ner  of  putting  the  matter,  it  appeared,  was  not 
happy,  for  it  was  taken  by  the  old  fellow  as 
implying  that  Mrs.  Woolen  was  thought  to  be 
the  one  there  superior  in  authority.  He  eyed 
the  couple  before  him  a  moment  as  if  in  doubt 
whether  to  pay  any  attention  to  them;  then, 
tapping  himself  on  the  chest,  "Z  am  Mrs. 
Woolen,"  he  said  sternly.  As  this  was  unmis- 
takenly  a  manner  of  saying,  "You  may  state 
your  business  here  if  you  have  any,"  one  come 

[36] 


THE  CASE  OF  MR.  WOOLEN 

for  the  washing  humbly  put  the  case  in  words 
as  well  chosen  as  possible.  The  old  fellow  was 
mollified;  he  had  merely  desired  recognition, 
that  was  all.  Mrs.  Woolen  was  not  at  home ; 
"the  woman,"  he  said,  had  gone  "to  Quarterly 
Meetin'  over  at  the  Quaker  Church."  But  it 
was  "all  right,"  he  said,  which  was  understood 
to  mean  that  the  washing  was  ready  here. 

"You'll  find  that  washing  first-class,"  said 
Mr.  Woolen.  "There's  nothing  crooked  about 
her;  she's  a  good,  honest  woman." 


Asked  concerning  when  Mrs.  Woolen  would 
be  likely  to  return,  Mr.  Woolen  replied  in  a 
very  business-like  manner,  "Six  o'clock,  six 
o'clock  sharp  this  evening." 

"Not  till  six  o'clock?"  He  was  asked  when 
she  had  departed. 

"Eight  o'clock,  eight  o'clock  this  morning," 
he  said.  He  then  furnished  the  information 

[87] 


PEEPS  AT  PEOPLE 

that  Quarterly  Meeting  lasted  several  Bays, 
and  that  Mrs.  Woolen  was  on  deck,  to  put  it 
so,  throughout. 

From  this  point  Mr.  Woolen  drifted  into 
personal  reminiscence  of  the  surrender  at  Ap- 
pomattox,  in  proof  of  his  having  been  present 
at  which,  without  his  assertion  having  been 
questioned,  he  rather  defiantly  offered  to  ex 
hibit  "the  papers,"  as  he  called  them,  which 
he  said  were  "right  there  framed  in  the  parlor." 
Though  Mr.  Woolen  had  been  on  the  conquer 
ing  side  at  the  historic  surrender,  he  rather 
suggested  the  idea  of  his  having  surrendered, 
in  a  more  personal  and  figurative  sense,  at 
about  that  time  also;  that  is  to  say,  he  did  not 
impress  one  as  having,  for  an  able-bodied  man, 
put  up  a  very  good  fight  since. 

He  was  recalled  to  the  matter  of  the  wash 
ing,  and,  rising,  led  the  way  into  the  house  to 
procure  it.  But  directly  the  party  had  en 
tered,  Mr.  Woolen  fell  back,  obviously  in 
amazement,  upon  the  toes  of  those  following 
him.  He  cried  that  it  was  "gone!" 

"It  was  right  there  on  that  chair,"  he  said, 
"in  the  corner.  There's  where  she  left  it  this 
morning.  There's  where  she  left  it.  Done  up 
it  was  in  newspaper.  She  said  to  me,  'There 

[38] 


THE  CASE  OF  MR.  WOOLEN 

it  is ;  now  don't  you  let  that  go  out  of  the  house 
until  you  get  your  money  for  it.'  That's  what 
she  said." 

He  was  prevailed  on  to  make  a  search 
through  the  house,  though  he  contended  ob 
stinately  that  it  was  right  there  in  the  corner, 
and  no  other  place,  that  that  which  they  were 
seeking  had  been  "left."  He  almost  offered  the 
presence  there  of  the  chair  as  evidence.  A 
search  of  the  house,  however,  was  not  exhaust 
ing  nor  impracticable,  as  there  were  but  two 
rooms  to  it,  these  very  snug,  no  closets,  and  an 
economy  of  furniture  behind  which  the  bundle 
might  be. 

Mr.  Woolen's  perturbation  was  too  genuine 
for  suspicion  of  his  having  made  away  with  the 
package.  But  this  very  honesty  of  emotion, 
in  conjunction  with  the  circumstance  of  the  ab 
sence  of  the  washing,  and  divers  indications  in 
breath  and  manner,  noticeable  from  the  first, 
aided  in  making  out  a  case  against  him.  A 
jury  would  reasonably  have  inferred  that  Mr. 
Woolen  had  a  frailty,  known  and  provided 
against  by  his  wife,  that,  specifically,  he  had 
a  weakness  which,  though  not  uncommonly  as 
sociated  with  the  most  amiable  characters,  is 

[39] 


PEEPS  AT  PEOPLE 

not  compatible  with  being  left  to  receive  money 
for  washing. 

Mr.  Woolen  was  decidedly  provoked  at  the 
situation.  "I  can  do  a  man's  work,"  he  said, 
stumbling  restlessly  about  the  room,  "but  not 
a  woman's.  I  can  lay  brick,  lay  brick;  that's 
my  work,  that's  what  I  do,  but  I  can't  keep  the 
house  in  order."  It  was  not  to  be  expected  of 
him.  Coming,  in  his  movements,  plump  upon 
the  door  of  the  kitchen,  he  disappeared  through 
it,  and  could  be  heard  going  about  out  of  view, 
ostensibly  still  at  the  search,  testily  kicking  the 
furniture  and  mumbling  concerning  "her  be 
ing  away  with  a  lot  of  her  cronies." 


[40] 


VI 


WHEN  THE  TRAIN  COMES  IN 


A  BUSY  railroad  station  is  a  grand  child's 
picture-book,  for  him  who  observes  it.  All  the 
child  has  to  do  is  to  look;  the  leaves  are  turned 
before  him.  There,  in  all  the  colors  of  the 
rainbow,  are  countless  pictures  to  cram  himself 
with.  And  what  is  a  rather  curious  fact  is, 
that  a  railroad  station  may  freely  be  classed 
among  humorous  picture-books.  Other  pic 
ture-books,  such  as  church,  theater,  Broadway, 
Fifth  Avenue,  political  meeting,  ball  game, 
and  so  forth,  have,  of  course,  many  funny  pic 
tures.  But,  whether  it  is  that  almost  all  absurd 
people  constantly  travel,  and  those  with  no 
touch  of  the  motley  do  but  seldom,  or  whether, 

[41] 


PEEPS  AT  PEOPLE 

as  here,  nothing  else  goes  forward  seriously  to 
occupy  the  attention,  one's  mind  is  left  more 
free  to  be  struck  by  the  ridiculousness  of  all 
mankind,  so  it  is  that  perhaps  as  humorous  a 
place  as  one  may  find  is  a  busy  railroad  station. 
And  one  must  be  very  blase  who  no  longer 
feels  an  enjoyable  stimulation  at  the  approach 
of  an  expected  train  at  the  station. 

The  psychology  of  the  arrival  of  a  railroad 
train  at  the  station  belongs  to  the  proper  study 
of  mankind,  and  could  be  made  into  an  inter 
esting  little  monograph.  As  the  train  becomes 
due  one  feels  but  half  a  mind  on  the  conver 
sation,  supposing  one  to  be  conversing;  the 
other  half  is  waiting  for  the  train.  One  has, 
too,  a  feeling,  faint  at  first,  looming  stronger 
within  one,  against  continuing  to  sit  quietly 
inside  (supposing  one  to  have  gone  within), 
where  one  is.  An  impelling  to  go  see  if  the 
train  is  not  coming  numbs  one's  brain.  A  like 
contagious  restlessness  breathes  through  the 
waiting-room.  People  begin  to  stand  up  by 
their  grips.  Some  go  without  on  the  search. 
They  can  be  seen  through  the  doors  and  win 
dows,  pacing  the  platform ;  they  return,  some 
of  them,  and  one  scans  their  expressions  eager 
ly — they  are  discouragingly  blank.  After  a 

[42] 


WHEN  THE  TRAIN  COMES  IN 

bit,  they  go  out  again,  or  others  do,  and  re* 
turn  as  before;  wholly  unfitted  now,  one  can 
see,  for  any  concentration  of  thought. 

The  train  is  late.  There  is  an  alarm  or  two. 
At  last,  an  unmistakable  elasticity  impreg 
nates  the  place.  A  distant  whistle  is  heard;  it 
stirs  one  like  the  tap  of  a  drum.  The  train 
is  coming!  One's  pulse  beats  high  as  one 
moves  into  the  press  toward  the  doorway.  The 
whistle  is  heard  much  nearer.  Then  again  and 
again!  Then  with  a  whirl  that  turns  one  a 
somersault  inside,  a  long  dark,  heavy  mass 
rushes  across  the  light  before  one.  When  one 
comes  again  on  one's  feet,  speaking  figura 
tively,  the  train  is  standing  there,  and  one 
hurries  aboard  to  get  a  seat.  But,  first,  one  is 
stopped  until  arriving  passengers  get  off. 


[43] 


VII 


AN  OLD  FOGY 


MR.  DEATS,  senior,  is  an  old  fogy.  There 
is  no  doubt  about  that.  In  early  life  Mr. 
Deats,  sr.,  had  a  pretty  hard  time.  He  was  de 
nied  the  advantages  of  any  particular  school 
ing.  In  consequence  of  this,  Mr.  Deats  now  oc 
casionally  uses  very  mortifying  English.  At  an 
early  age — somewhere  about  the  age  of  ten — 
he  entered  trade.  A  ridiculous  combination  of 
adverse  circumstances  made  it  impossible  for 
Mr.  Deats  to  go  much  into  polite  society.  In 
consequence  of  this,  he  unfortunately  lacks  pol 
ish.  For  a  great  number  of  years  the  world 
was  not  kind  to  him.  It  may  have  been  trouble 
that  destroyed  his  beauty.  At  any  rate,  Mr. 

[44] 


AN  OLD  FOGY 

Deats  is  not  a  handsome  man.  Not  being  able 
to  do  anything  better,  he  confined  his  atten 
tion  to  doing  his  duty;  that  is  not  a  very  bril 
liant  employment,  it  is  true,  but  it  was  good 
enough  for  Mr.  Deats. 

In  the  course  of  time,  Mr.  Deats  took  to 
himself  a  wife ;  and,  in  the  course  of  time  again, 
this  wife  bore  Mr.  Deats  a  son — and  died  si 
multaneously.  Well,  Mr.  Deats  was  left  with 
a  boy,  and  this  boy  must  have  something  to 
start  him  on  in  life.  "How  can  a  boy  start  life 
with  nothing?"  thought  Mr.  Deats;  and  very 
rightly,  too.  One  can't  feed,  clothe,  and  edu 
cate  a  boy  on  nothing.  So  Mr.  Deats  did  his 
duty  harder  than  ever;  and  he  built  up  a  busi 
ness.  Building  up  a  business  doesn't  require 
culture  or  intelligence;  but  it  does  take  some 
time.  Mr.  Deats  has  grown  a  trifle  old  in  the 
building;  but  it  is  a  good  business.  It  has  been 
said  that  Mr.  Deats'  business  is  one  of  the  best 
in  the  city.  And  Mr.  Deats  has  a  fine  son. 
After  the  manner  of  his  class,  Mr.  Deats  be 
lieved  that  all  the  things  that  were  denied  him 
were  the  very  best  things  for  his  son.  His  son 
should  not  have  to  work  as  his  father  did — and 
he  doesn't. 

Mr.  Deats,  jr.,  has  had  advantages;  he  is  a 
[45] 


PEEPS  AT  PEOPLE 

college  graduate,  a  member  of  clubs,  and  one 
of  the  prominent  young  men  of  the  city  so 
cially.  Of  course,  being  much  cleverer,  young 
Deats  sees  many  of  the  mistakes  his  father 
made  in  life.  He  sees,  for  one  thing,  what  an 
old  fogy  is  Mr.  Deats,  sr.  He  sees  how  much 
better  the  business  could  be  run.  Mr.  Deats, 
sr.,  does  not  know  how  to  run  a  business;  he  is 
not  modern  enough.  Still,  he  thinks  he  knows 
it  all — that  is  the  way  with  these  bull-headed 
old  codgers — and  won't  let  young  Deats  con 
duct  the  business  as  it  should  be  conducted. 
This,  naturally,  is  very  irritating  to  young 
Deats.  No  man  enjoys  seeing  his  own  business 
go  to  rack  and  ruin.  But  the  old  man  can't  be 
kicked  plump  out  into  the  street.  He  has  no 
home  but  with  young  Deats.  And,  in  a  way, 
he  is  useful  about  the  office ;  though  even  were 
he  not,  he  must  be  humored.  After  all,  he  is 
the  father  of  young  Deats,  and  blood  is  thicker 
than  water. 


[46] 


VIII 
HAIR  THAT  IS  SCENERY 


MR.  WIGGER,  Mrs.  Wigger's  husband  (the 
writer  boards  with  Mrs.  Wigger),  is  an  ice 
man.  It  is  not  his  business,  however,  with 
which  this  study  is  concerned ;  it  is  with  his  hair. 
Perhaps  it  is  a  great  assumption  of  talent  to 
attempt  to  describe  Mr.  Wigger's  hair.  Oh, 
Muse!  as  John  Milton  says,  lend  a  hand  here! 
Mr.  Wigger's  abundant  hair,  first,  is  a  deep, 
lust  erf  ul  black,  and  extremely  curly.  From  his 
ears  straight  upward  to  the  crown  of  his  head 
(from  tli^  th^e-nuarters  view  of  him  studied 
here  only  one  full  ear  Ij  TTisible,  and  just  barely 

[47] 


PEEPS  AT  PEOPLE 

the  tip  of  the  other  one)  an  oblong  block  of 
close  curls  is  attached  to  the  side  of  his  head, 
like  a  pannier.  Leftward  from  this,  to  a  point 
directly  over  the  beginning  of  his  eyebrow,  a 
broad,  bare  strip  extends  up  to  a  black,  undu 
lating  band  of  hair  which  marks  the  top  of  his 
head.  Thence  leftward  to  the  part  in  the  mid 
dle  of  his  head  is  a  plot  of  hair  like  a  little 
black  lawn,  extending  well  down  to  his  fore 
head  and  neatly  rounded  at  the  corner  away 
from  the  part.  Now,  from  the  part  onward 
the  hair  in  a  great  mass  sweeps  upward  in  a 
towering  concave  wave,  the  high  ridge  of  which, 
though  it  folds  ever  slightly  inward,  culminates 
at  the  top  in  a  sharp,  soaring  point.  Over  the 
far  temple  the  hair  falls  from  the  great  waves 
in  little  swirling  wavelets.  Mr.  Wigger's  mus 
tache,  a  great,  glossy,  oily,  inky  black,  against 
a  sallow  background,  with  tall  upward  ends,  is 
a  worthy  companion  to  his  hair.  His  neck,  to 
continue  the  portrait,  takes  a  long  dive  into  his 
collar,  which  is  very  much  too  big,  with  the 
fullness  protruding  in  front.  His  shoulders 
are  steeply  sloping,  and  his  waistcoat  is  cut  ex 
tremely  low,  like  one  for  full  dress,  his  shirt 
front  bulging  when,  as  for  tLI;,  £/VJL  Iraic,  he  is 
seated.  In  this  man  loinance  lives  on.  Ai 

[48] 


HAIR  THAT  IS  SCENERY 

prosaic  age  has  not  marred  him.  You  can  read 
ily  see  how  a  woman  would  become  infatuated 
with  such  a  one.  He  is  a  man  not  tonsorially 
decadent. 


[49] 


IX 
A  NICE  MAN 


THE  clerk  of  the  store  (dry  goods  and  gen 
tlemen's  furnishings)  is  what  is  known  as  a 
nice  man.  He  is  known  as  such  among  his 
neighbors.  He  is  known  as  such  by  his  cus 
tomers.  People,  wives  sometimes  to  their  hus 
bands,  refer  to  him  as  a  nice  man.  Motherly 
old  ladies  say,  "He  is  such  a  nice  man!" 
Younger  ladies  exclaim,  "What  a  nice  manP 
You  cannot  look  at  him  and  fail  to  know  that 
he  is  a  nice  man.  You  cannot  look  at  him  and 
fail  to  know  that  his  life  has  been  blameless. 
He  is  very  clean,  tidy,  and  very  fresh-faced. 

[50] 


A  NICE  MAN 

His  cheeks  are  round  and  rosy;  his  eyes  are 
bright;  his  mustache  is  silken.  He  is  in  per 
fect  health;  his  expression  is  pleasant;  his  dis 
position  agreeable;  and  his  manners  are  per 
fect.  His  name  is  Will  (certainly). 

The  nice  man  has  a  little  wife,  who  is  almost 
as  nice  as  he.  She  is  interested  in  Sunday 
schools.  The  nice  man  and  his  wife  have  a  lit 
tle  baby  that  looks  just  like  its  father.  On 
Sundays  they  walk  in  the  park,  pushing  the 
baby-cab  before  them.  On  great  days  of  cele 
bration  they  go  together  into  the  country,  on 
picnics;  and  return  home  at  night  tired  out. 
On  these  trips  to  the  country  the  little  wife 
brings  home  chestnut  burrs  to  hang  from  the 
chandelier  in  the  parlor.  She  made  some 
pussy-willow  buds  to  look  like  little  cats  on  a 
stick.  These  are  on  the  mantel.  When  Will 
got  the  job  he  now  has  his  wife  turned  to  the 
store's  advertisement  the  first  thing  in  the 
newspaper  every  evening  to  read  it.  She  had 
always  known  that  Will  had  it  in  him  to  be 
something,  and  so  she  had  always  told  him. 
When  the  nice  men  gets  a  raise  in  salary  he 
and  his  wife  will  put  away  so  much  a  week  and 
soon  have  a  home  of  their  own  somewhere  in 

[51} 


PEEPS  AT  PEOPLE 

the  suburbs.  Already,  the  baby  has  a  savings- 
bank  account  of  its  own,  and  by  the  time  it  has 
developed  into  the  grown  image  of  the  nice 
man,  its  father,  it  will  have  a  sum  of  money. 


[52] 


X 

NO  SNOB 


LET  us  walk  down  the  street  with  Muldoon. 

Muldoon  is  always  a  bit  shabby,  and  never 
well  shaved.  To  be  well  groomed  is  the  mark 
of  a  snob.  Muldoon  walks  with  a  brisk  step  and 
somewhat  defiantly.  He  carries  his  shoulders 
well  back  and  a  trifle  raised.  He  wears  a  cap ; 
and  a  fine  rakish  thing  is  the  way  he  wears  it. 
There  is  in  his  manner  of  wearing  a  cap  a  sug 
gestion  of  the  country  fair  gambling  game  of 
ring-a-cane.  His  appearance  gives  the  impres 
sion  that  some  one  had  tossed  a  cap  at  him  and 
failed  to  ring  him  squarely,  but  had  landed  it 

[53] 


PEEPS  AT  PEOPLE 

insecurely,  and  left  it  liable  to  fall  off  at  any 
moment,  decidedly  on  one  side  of  his  head,  and 
that  then  Muldoon  had  walked  off  without 
giving  the  slightest  thought  to  the  matter. 

Professionally,  Muldoon's  greatest  virtue  is 
that  he  is  a  champion  "mixer"  and  "butter-in"; 
his  greatest  failing,  that  he  is  not  reliable.  Still 
he  is  spoken  of  among  his  confrerie  as  "a  good 
man,"  and  is  never  without  employment.  He 
has  served  upon  a  great  multitude  of  newspa 
pers  in  sundry  and  divers  cities,  towns,  and 
hamlets,  though  never  upon  any  one  for  a 
greater  period  than  several  months.  His  is  a 
nature  that  requires  constant  change  and  va 
riety.  In  distant  places  he  has  been  editor — 
sporting  editor,  we  believe  he  says — though  in 
his  own  city — we  should  hardly  say  that  he 
had  a  city  but  that  he  always  comes  back  again 
— he  serves  in  the  capacity  of  police  reporter. 
Thus  we  see  that  a  rolling  stone  is  not  without 
honor,  save  in  his  own  country. 

Muldoon's  classics  in  literature  are  "Down 
the  Line  with  John  Henry"  and  "Fables  in 
Slang,"  with  a  good  appreciation  of  "Chimmy 
Fadden."  He  one  time  wrote  a  book  himself 
which  was  distinguished  chiefly  for  spirit  and 
the  odd  circumstance  that  most  of  the  lady 

[54] 


NO  SNOB 

characters  were  named  Flossie,  and  which  was 
a  failure  financially. 

We  were  one  day  in  company  of  Muldoon 
when  he  visited  Hudson  Street,  in  the  neigh 
borhood  of  his  childhood  days,  and  where  he 


met  again  some  of  the  friends  of  his  youth. 
These  meetings  were  affecting  to  witness.  "Hi, 
Pat  Muldoon!"  cried  a  fine  stocky  lad  who  im 
mediately  fell  into  the  attitude  of  pugilistic  en 
counter.  Muldoon,  too,  put  up  his  fists.  "Hi, 
Owen  Heely !"  he  cried ;  and  they  circled  about, 
working  their  arms  in  and  out  and  grinning  an 
affectionate  greeting  upon  each  other. 

We  walk  down  the  street  with  Muldoon ;  we 
pass  an  acquaintance  (of  Muldoon's).  "How 
'do,  Pat!"  says  the  acquaintance.  "Hullo, 
Tom!'"  (or  Dick,  or  Harry,  as  the  case  may 
be),  cries  Muldoon,  then,  as  if  in  afterthought, 
"Hold  on,  just  a  minute,  Tom."  Muldoon 
leaves  us  for  a  moment — we  had  got  quite  past 

[55] 


PEEPS  AT  PEOPLE 

the  acquaintance — goes  back  and  engages  him 
in  earnest  conversation,  inaudible  to  us.  The 
acquaintance's  head  is  bent  forward  and  while 
giving  ear  he  gazes  fixedly  at  the  ground.  Then 
he  slowly  shakes  his  head,  and,  straightening 
up,  says  (we  hear),  "I  would  if  I  had  it,  Pat. 
But  I  haven't  got  it  with  me.''  "All  right," 
cries  Muldoon,  in  perfect  good  humor.  "So 
long,"  and  he  returns  to  us. 

We  continue  down  the  street,  and  Muldoon 
beguiles  the  way  with  tales  of  his  checkered 
experience.  Muldoon's  duties  as  a  representa 
tive  of  the  press  require  him  to  spend  consider 
able  of  his  time  at  the  police  station.  One  time 
there  came  a  great  hurry-up  call  for  the  ambu 
lance  when  the  ambulance  surgeon  was  nowhere 
to  be  found.  (This  city  hospital  was  next  door 
to  the  police  station. )  The  horses  were  hitched, 
and  stomping  and  waiting.  Again  and  again 
the  call  was  repeated.  A  man,  no  doubt,  lay 
dying.  Still  no  ambulance  surgeon.  Muldoon 
fretted  and  waited.  At  length  he  could  stand 
it  no  longer.  He  leaped  into  the  seat,  jerked 
the  reins  in  his  hand,  clanged  the  gong,  and 
dashed  full  tilt  to  the  rescue.  It  was  madness. 
What  could  he  do  when  he  got  there?  "Clang! 
Clang!"  went  the  gong.  Reeling,  plunging, 

[56] 


NO  SNOB 

staggering,  now  on  two  wheels,  now  on  one, 
now  on  none  at  all — on  and  on  and  on,  around 
corners,  across  tracks,  between  vehicles,  past 
poles,  dashed  the  ambulance.  "Clang !  Clang !" 
Just  missing  a  pedestrian  here,  who  saves  him 
self  only  by  a  hair's-breadth,  grazing  a  wheel 
there,  on,  on!  until  he  drew  up  by  a  knot  of 
people  along  the  curb.  This  drive  was  after 
ward  reckoned  the  fastest  run  in  the  history  of 
the  service. 

A  laborer,  swinging  a  mighty  sledge,  had 
dropped  it  on  and  mashed  his  great  toe.  He 
was  in  acute  pain.  The  man  refused  to  budge 
until  his  wound  has  been  attended  to.  What 
was  to  be  done?  Muldoon  had  picked  up  a 
trifling  knowledge  of  surgery  about  the  hos 
pital.  He  whipped  out  the  surgical  kit  and 
took  off  the  fellow's  toe,  neat  as  you  please, 
by  the  grace  of  heaven.  We  are  now  come  to 
a  public-house.  Muldoon  marches  in  (we  fol 
low)  .  He  puts  his  foot  on  the  rail,  a  dime,  a  ten- 
cent  piece,  on  the  bar,  turns  to  us,  and  says, 
"What'll  you  have?"  We  look  at  the  dime  and 
say,  "Beer."  Now,  Muldoon  enters  into  con 
versation  with  the  barman  (who  has  addressed 
him  as  "Pat"),  and  recounts  to  him  the  details 
of  his  late  illness,  which  are  most  astonishing. 

[57] 


PEEPS  AT  PEOPLE 

When  we  resume  our  journey,  which  Mul- 
doon  does  with  some  reluctance,  he  tells  us  the 
dream  of  his  life.  On  the  street  where  Mul- 
doon  spent  his  boyhood  live  a  great  number  of 
gossiping  old  cats,  who,  in  so  far  as  they  were 
able,  made  that  boyhood  miserable,  who  bore 
false  witness  to  one  another,  to  his  family,  and 
to  others,  against  Muldoon,  and  who  predicted 
that  he  (Muldoon)  would  come  to  a  bad  end. 
On  the  occasion  of  his  coming  into  any  great 
sum  of  money,  he  intends  to  wind  up  a  tre 
mendous  bacchanalian  orgy  on  that  street.  He 
will  drive  up  it  in  a  cab  in  broad  daylight, 
howling  and  singing,  and  with  his  feet  out  the 
windows.  On  the  roof  of  his  equipage  will 
be  a  great  array  of  bottles,  and  the  cabman 
will  be  drunk  and  screaming.  We  believe 
Muldoon  sees  in  this  mental  picture  a  Brob- 
dignagian  placard  on  the  back  of  the  vehicle 
reading,  "This  is  Muldoon!  !  !"  That  will 
give  'em  something  to  talk  about.  It  will  be 
a  fine  revenge. 


[58] 


XI 
EVERY  INCH  A  MAN 


IF  there  is  a  finer  fellow  in  the  world  than 
Chester  Kirk  we  have  never  seen  him.  As  he 
himself  so  often  says,  the  finest  things  are  done 
up  in  small  packages.  (There  was  Napoleon, 
for  instance,  as  we  have  heard  him  say,  and 
General  Grant,  and,  at  the  moment,  we  do  not 
remember  who  all.) 

When  in  eyeshot  of  ladies,  especially  when 
he  is  unknown  to  them,  he  is  grand.  He  takes 
his  gloves  from  his  pocket  and  holds  them  in 
his  left  hand.  He  searches  himself  for  a  cigar, 

[59] 


PEEPS  AT  PEOPLE 

which,  when  found,  he  holds  before  him,  un- 
lighted,  in  his  right  hand,  on  a  level  with  his 
chest,  his  elbow  crooked.  He  stands  very 
firmly,  with  one  leg  bending  backward  in  a  line 
of  virile,  graceful  curve.  His  back  is  taut. 
His  other  knee  is  bent  forward,  relaxed.  Or 
he  strides  up  and  down,  with  something  of  a 
fine  strut,  like  a  fighting  cock.  So,  he  reminds 
us  of  Alan  Breck. 

When,  in  this  stimulating  position,  he  has 
on  a  long  coat,  he  swings  its  skirt  from  side  to 
side.  He  feels,  undoubtedly  so  brave  and 
strong.  He  laughs,  when  there  is  opportunity 
for  it,  in  a  deep,  manly  voice,  and  often.  He 
sometimes  pulls  back  his  head  so  that  he  has  a 
double  chin.  He  is  every  inch  a  man. 

As  is  quite  fitting  and  proper,  he  is  one  of 
the  most  photographed  of  men.  This  is  a  fam 
ily  trait.  He  has  ever  just  had  a  new  photo 
graph  taken  to  send  to  his  people,  or  his  peo 
ple  have  just  sent  some  new  ones  to  him,  which 
he  shows  about  with  great  gusto  to  his  friends. 
His  room  is  littered  with  likenesses  of  the 
Kirks,  a  very  remarkable  family.  Here  is  a 
photograph  of  his  brother. 

"Notice  that  chest,"  says  Kirk.  "He's  got  an 
expansion  on  him  like  the  front  of  a  house. 

[60] 


EVERY  INCH  A  MAN 

Why,  in  his  freshman  year  he  had  the  biggest 
expansion  in  his  class.  Athlete !  That  boy's  a 
boxer."  Kirk  points  the  stem  of  his  pipe  at 
you  and  continues:  "He  stood  up  before  the 
huskiest  man  in  Seattle  (and  there  are  no 
huskier  men  than  in  Seattle),  a  big  brute  of  a 
fireman,  a  regular  giant,  with  a  reputation  as 
a  whirlwind  slugger.  Yes.  Why,  it's  all  I 
can  do  to  hold  that  boy  myself.  This,"  ex 
hibiting  another  picture,  "is  my  father.  See 
that  pair  of  shoulders?  He  is  a  little  under 
the  medium  height,  but  the  way  he  carries  him 
self  he  doesn't  look  it.  He  looks  to  be  a  rather 
big  man.  He  has  an  air.  He  came  West  a 
poor  man,  but  one  that  could  see  chances,  take 
them,  and  hold  on  to  them.  He  took  them  and 
hung  on.  He  built  up  that  business,  I  think  I 
have  a  right  to  say  that  it's  the  biggest  on  the 
Pacific  Slope,  in  an  incredibly  short  time. 
Business  he  was  from  the  word  go.  He  could 
handle  men!  An  entertainer  he  is,  too;  he 
makes  friends  wherever  he  goes;  everybody 
likes  him.  Here's  my  sister.  'Sis'  is  the  so 
ciety  woman  of  the  younger  set  at  home. 
That's  my  other  brother.  He's  a  hunter." 

Next  to  pictures  of  himself  and  family,  and 
their  pets  and  live  stock,  there  is  nothing  Kirk 

[61] 


PEEPS  AT  PEOPLE 

revels  in  so  much  as  snapshots  of  his  native 
country,  "greatest  country  in  the  world."  He 
has  these  pasted  into  several  volumes:  each 
print  is  labeled,  as  "Mt.  Ranier,  looking  north," 
"Puget  Sound,  low  tide,"  and  so  forth.  Each 
new  acquaintance  Kirk  takes  through  the  lot 
and  explains  the  circumstances  under  which 
each  picture  was  taken. 

As  Kirk  himself  remarks,  his  handwriting 
is  very  strong.  It  is  that  strong  that  it  has 
only  about  three,  sometimes  four,  short  words 
to  a  line,  with  good  strong  spaces  in  between. 
The  descending  loops  of  letters  on  one  line 
often  come  down  and  lariat  small  letters  on  the 
line  below.  The  sense  goes  at  a  splendid  break 
neck  speed,  and  takes  pauses  and  stops  as 
though  they  were  hurdles.  The  whole  is 
penned  in  somewhat  that  fashion  in  which  ex 
press  clerks  make  out  receipts. 

That  reminds  us.  We  one  time  went  with 
Kirk  into  an  express  office  to  send  a  package. 
We  ignorantly  considered  this  to  be  a  thing  of 
little  moment.  That  was  because  we  do  not 
know  how  to  handle  men.  A  pale  young  man, 
with  a  high,  bald  forehead,  who  had  the  ap 
pearance  of  an  excellent  assistant  to  some  one 
in  an  office,  was  standing  at  the  counter.  He 

[62] 


EVERY  INCH  A  MAN 

witnessed  the  entrance  of  the  two  without  re 
marking  it  as  an  impressive  ceremony.  In 
deed,  the  clerk  was  quite  apathetic.  In  an  in 
stant  all  this  was  changed. 

"Let  me  have  your  pencil,"  Kirk  demanded. 
It  was  the  voice  of  the  man  born  to  command, 
the  man  that  moves  an  army  of  subordinates 
this  way  or  that,  as  he  wills,  like  chessmen. 
He  took  the  pencil,  hoisted  his  package  onto 
the  counter  with  a  flourish,  tilted  his  cigar  up 
ward  in  one  corner  of  his  mouth  by  a  move 
ment  of  his  jaws,  and  fell  into  so  fine  an  atti 
tude  that  the  pale  young  man  became  inter 
ested  and  leaned  over  to  see  what  important 
name  would  appear  in  the  address.  In  his 
strongest  hand  Kirk  addressed  it.  It  was  a 
package  worth  two  dollars  Kirk  was  sending 
to  his  brother,  who  needed  it.  "Send  collect," 
cried  Kirk.  And  the  entire  company,  Kirk 
included,  and  ourself,  who  also  knew  the  con 
tents  of  the  package,  felt,  it  was  evident,  that 
a  transaction  very  important  to  the  interests 
of  business  had  been  accomplished. 

Kirk  was  one  time  playing  checkers  when 
we  entered.  "Well,  how  are  you  coming  out?" 
we  inquired.  "Are  you  being  beaten,  Ches 
ter?"  He  flared  up  like  a  flash.  "I  can  beat 

[63] 


PEEPS  AT  PEOPLE 

you!"  he  cried.  We  had  never  seen  the  man 
so  beautiful.  (He  had  never  in  his  life  seen 
us  play  checkers.)  He  looked  to  be  invincible; 
though  he  wasn't;  for  he  had  lost  every  game. 


[64] 


XII 


HIS  BUSINESS  IS  GOOD 


"HULLO  there,  Bill!  I'm  glad  to  see  you. 
How're  you  getting  along?  Do  you  know,  I 
didn't  know  you  when  you  first  came  in.  Let 
me  see,  it's  been  a  couple — no,  four  years  since 
I  saw  you  before.  I  was  pretty  much  down 
and  out  then,  ha!  ha!  Just  bummed  my  way 
to  New  York,  you  know.  Well,  how  are  things 
with  you?  You  know,  I  sat  there  looking  an' 
a  looking  at  you — couldn't  make  up  my  mind 
whether  it  was  you  or  not.  I  says  to  myself, 
Til  risk  it,'  I  says.  'If  it's  Bill,  we'll  have  a 
time,'  I  says.  Ha!  Ha!  I  came  over  to  take  a 

[65] 


PEEPS  AT  PEOPLE 

bath — there's  a  fine  bath  place  across  the  street, 
where  I  always  go.  I'm  in  the  photograph 
business,  you  know,  over  in  Brooklyn.  Yes, 
doing  well  now;  I'm  manager  of  the  place;  I'll 
take  you  over  to  see  it.  Been  in  the  business 
three  years,  same  place ;  first  two  years  work, 
work  all  the  time,  no  pay  at  all,  so  to  speak. 
But  I  knew  I  was  learning  the  business,  and  I 
liked  the  job  and  liked  the  boss ;  we  were  busted 
together,  you  know.  I  was  head  musher  in  a 
mushhouse  at  Coney,  you  know,  when  I  first 
met  him;  then  I  lost  the  job;  we  bummed 
around  together  awhile.  Then  I  went  back  to 
Indiana — by  freight — to  see  my  folks. 

"Yes,  the  old  man's  well;  Dora's  married, 
you  know;  married  a  Sunday  school  superin 
tendent,  church  where  she  taught  Sunday 
school.  Nothing  doing  in  Indiana.  Laid 
around  awhile,  then  I  got  a  letter  from  this 
feller.  He  had  come  into  money,  set  up  a 
photograph  shop,  told  me  to  come  back  and 
take  a  job  with  him.  I  went  to  my  sister, 
Dora,  you  know,  and  got  railroad  fare  here.  I 
says  to  her,  'If  you  can  get  me  the  money,  I'll 
pay  you  as  soon  as  I  can,  which  won't  be  long,' 
I  says.  'I've  got  a  good  job  there/  I  says.  I 
says,  'Of  course,  I  can  bum  my  way  back,  but 

[66] 


HIS  BUSINESS  IS  GOOD 

it  will  take  me  four  or  five  days,  maybe  a 
week/  I  says.  'If  I  have  railroad  fare  I  can 
get  on  a  train  here  one  day  and  get  off  there 
the  next,'  I  says.  She  got  me  the  money  from 
her  husband — sixteen  dollars;  she's  been  aw 
ful  good  to  me;  and  I  came  in  a  passenger 
train.  First  time,  you  know,  ha!  ha!  Second- 
class,  though;  just  as  good  as  first,  though.  I 
got  on  at  Indianapolis  one  day,  you  know,  and 
got  off  in  New  York  the  next  day.  Twenty- 
four  hours,  you  know. 

"First  thing,  I  went  to  the  feller's  place,  but 
he  had  moved.  Didn't  leave  any  address,  where 
he  had  gone,  you  know;  nobody  around  there 
knew  anything  about  him.  I  was  in  a  deuce 
of  a  fix.  Didn't  have  a  cent  of  money — wasn't 
the  first  time,  though.  We  used  to  write  to 
each  other  sometimes  through  the  General  De 
livery,  so  I  went  there,  and  sure  enough  there 
was  a  letter  for  me;  but  there  was  some  postage 
due  on  it  somehow.  I  says  to  the  man,  I  says, 
'I  haven't  got  any  money;  I  can't  pay  it' ;  there 
was  a  feller  standing  behind  me  in  the  line ;  he 
ups  and  says,  'Here,  I'll  pay  it,'  he  says ;  'it's 
only  two  cents'  he  says.  So  I  got  the  letter 
and  set  right  out  for  the  address;  the  feller 
had  moved  to  a  better  place. 

[67] 


PEEPS  AT  PEOPLE 

"Well,  Bill,  business  has  been  good;  we  do 
a  corking  business  on  Saturdays  and  Sundays, 
and  the  feller  owns  two  or  three  galleries  now. 
He  goes  around  tending  to  all  of  them  and  I 
have  charge  of  one;  there's  my  card.  I'm 
thinking  about  quitting,  though,  and  going  out 
West  again;  business  is  too  good,  that's  the 
trouble.  No  excitement;  I'm  getting  discour 
aged.  Too  much  responsibility.  Lord,  Bill, 
I'm  a  tramp;  I  am;  yes,  sir,  that's  what  I  am. 
I  was  raised  that  way.  I  like  the  life.  The 
man  across  the  street  from  me  owns  a  res 
taurant,  where  I  eat;  offered  to  loan  me  a 
couple  of  hundred  dollars  to  buy  the  gallery 
where  I  am.  Ha!  Ha!  That's  a  good  one, 
isn't  it? 

"Girls,  Bill!  you  ought  to  see  the  girls  that 
come  to  my  place,  Bill,  yes,  sir,  to  get  their 
pictures  taken.  They  all  call  me  'Jack.'  Yes, 
everybody  around  here  calls  me  'Jack.'  I  used 
to  be  'John,'  you  know,  at  home,  where  we 
were  boys  together;  great  days  those,  yes,  sir; 
I  never  will  forget  those  days. 

"Why,  you  know,  I  could  have  been  mar 
ried,  Bill;  yes,  sir,  ha!  ha!  Me,  a  tramp.  A 
fine  girl,  too,  a  regular  lady,  the  real  article, 
yes,  sir,  rich  too,  yes,  sir.  Why  I  went  over 

[68] 


HIS  BUSINESS  IS  GOOD 

there  one  day,  and  their  dog — a  blame  little 
black  dog — was  sick;  you  ought  to  have  seen 
the  case  of  medicine  they  had  for  that  dog.  A 
whole  blame  box  full  of  bottles  of  medicine; 
good  medicine,  too,  yes,  sir ;  why,  I  would  have 
liked  to  have  had  some  of  that  medicine  myself. 

"I'll  take  you  over  and  introduce  you  to 
some  of  those  girls ;  here's  a  picture  I  took  of 
one ;  she's  a  daisy.  I  took  her  to  the  theater 
last  Saturday  night.  You  know,  it  does  a  fel 
ler  good  to  see  good  shows  at  the  theater.  This 
theater — it's  a  little  place  right  near  my  gal 
lery — I  go  there  every  once  in  awhile;  they 
have  better  shows  there  than  they  do  at  the 
Opera  House;  I  like  'em  better.  This  was  a 
fine  show,  'His  Mother's  Son.'  Yes,  sir,  it  does 
a  feller  good  to  go  to  the  theater. 

"What's  the  matter  with  your  coming  over 
and  staying  with  me  to-night?  But  no,  I 
haven't  a  room  now;  you'd  have  to  bunk  in  the 
gallery.  That's  where  I  sleep  now.  I  did  have 
a  room,  you  know,  blame  fine  room,  running 
water,  hot  and  cold,  and  all  that  sort  of  thing, 
three  dollars  a  week.  But  I  got  tired  of  it. 
Yes,  too  comfortable,  bed  all  made  up  for  me 
every  day,  and  everything  else.  It  made  me 
sick.  I  like  to  make  my  own  bed.  I  like  to 

[69] 


PEEPS  AT  PEOPLE 

rough  it  like  I'm  used  to  doing,  yes,  so  I  gave 
it  up  and  sleep  in  the  gallery  now  where  I  be 
long.  I  feel  at  home  there,  and  there's  plenty 
of  room. 

"Say,  Bill,  how  are  you  fixed?  Need  any 
money?  I've  got  more'n  I  want.  Don't  know 
what  to  do  with  it  all,  you  know.  Not  used 
to  it,  just  blow  it  in.  Well,  all  right,  we'll  take 
and  spend  it  then.  Drink  up,  Bill,  and  let's 
go  some  other  place." 


[70] 


XIII 


*A  NICE  TASTE  IN  MURDERS 


WE  are  much  interested  in  the  picturesque 
character  of  Caroline.  Caroline  is  twelve.  She 
is  like  a  buxom,  rosy  apple.  Her  dress  is  a 
"Peter  Thompson."  Her  physical  sports  are 
running  like  the  wind,  and,  in  summer,  fishing. 
Our  concern,  however,  is  more  with  her  mind. 
Caroline  is  a  voracious  reader.  We  are  some 
what  bookish  ourselves,  and  the  conversations 
between  us  are  often  frankly  literary.  Caro 
line's  taste  in  this  matter,  for  one  of  her  sex, 
is  rather  startling. 

"Oh,  you  ought  to  read  the  Tit  and  the  Pen- 
[71] 


PEEPS  AT  PEOPLE 

dulum,'  "  says  Caroline.  "Is  it  good?"  we  ask» 
"Fine!"  Caroline  replies.  "It's  at  the  time  of 
the  Inquisition,  you  know,"  she  explains. 
"They  take  a  man  and  torture  him.  It's  fine," 
declares  Caroline.  "The  demon's  eyes  grow 
brighter  and  brighter"  (phrases  we  recall  from 
her  synopsis  of  the  tale) ,  "the  pendulum  comes 
nearer  and  nearer — but  I  think  he  deserved  to 
escape,"  says  Caroline,  "because  he  tried  soi 
hard."  Now  that  is  really  a  deep  moral  ob 
servation,  "because  he  tried  so  hard,"  and  a 
sound  questioning  of  the  philosophical  verity 
of  a  work  of  art. 

"There's  a  good  murder  in  here,"  says  Caro 
line. 

"I  like  Sherlock  Holmes,"  Caroline  says. 

She  reads  the  "Mark  of  the  Beast"  and  the 
"Black  Cat"  with  great  satisfaction.  For  com 
edy  or  for  psychological  moments  she  does  not 
care,  but  there  is  nobody,  we  believe,  with 
greater  capacity  for  enjoyment  of  terrible  mur 
der  in  horrible  dark  places  in  the  land  of  fic 
tion. 

Night  after  night  we  heard  her  voice  reading 
aloud  to  her  visitor  Emily  after  the  two  had 
retired,  until  we  fell  asleep ;  and  in  the  morning 

[72] 


A  NICE  TASTE  IN  MURDERS 

we  saw  that  the  relish  of  horror  was  still  upon 
her. 

Emily  had  gone.  Caroline  had  retired  alone. 
We  read  by  the  lamp  in  the  living-room.  We 
were  startled  and  mystified  to  hear  suddenly 
mingle  with  the  sound  of  the  night  rain  all 
around,  a  long,  uncertain  wailing,  a  melan 
choly,  haunting,  sinking,  rising,  halting,  grue 
some  sound,  uncannily  redolent  of  weird  Gothic 
tales;  the  "Castle  of  Otranto"  came  into  our 
mind.  This  apparently  proceeded  from  an 
"upper  chamber,"  as  would  be  said  in  the  type 
of  story  mentioned. 

"That,"  said  brother  Henry,  in  replying 
doubtless  to  a  blank  face,  "is  Caroline  playing 
the  flute." 

No  one  alive,  of  course,  has  not  in  his  head  a 
picture  of  another  that  in  the  still  hours  sought 
solace  in  and  loved  a  flute,  Mr.  Richard  Swiv- 
eler  propped  up  in  bed,  his  nightcap  raked, 
fluting  out  the  sad  thoughts  in  his  bosom.  So 
in  the  night  and  the  storm,  does  another  bizarre 
soul,  Caroline,  speak  with  the  elements. 


[73] 


XIV; 
IDA'S  AMAZING  SURPRISE 


IN  "Bleak  House,"  I  think  it  is,  that  Poor 
Joe  keeps  "movin'  along."  One  of  the  atoms 
of  London,  he  passes  his  whole  life  in  the  midst 
of  thousands  upon  thousands  of  signs.  Printed 
letters,  painted  letters,  carved  letters,  words, 
words,  words,  blaze  upon  him  all  about.  ,Yet 
not  a  syllable  of  them  all  speaks  to  him;  seen 
but  all  unheard  by  him  they  clothe  his  path. 
Poor  Joe  cannot  read.  How  must  he  regard 
these  strange,  unmeaning  signs?  What  is  it 
goes  on  in  this  head  which  so  little  can  enter? 

[74] 


IDA'S  AMAZING  SURPRISE 

What  has  filtered  in  where  the  great  main 
avenue  of  approach  remains,  as  far  from  the 
first,  black  and  unopened?  What  does  this 
mind,  sitting  there  far  off  in  the  dark,  looking 
out,  comprehend  of  the  pageant?  And  how 
does  it  strike  him?  Some  such  a  mysterious 
mind  looks  out  from  Ida's  eyes. 

Ida  is  "colored."  It  is  my  belief  that  though 
she  is  grown  and  well  formed  a  little  child 
dwells  in  her  head.  I  know  that  when  I  ask 
her  to  bring  me  another  cup  of  coffee  and  she 
pauses,  slightly  bends  forward,  her  lips  a  trifle 
parted,  and  fastens  her  clear,  utterly  innocent, 
curious  eyes  upon  me,  waiting  to  hear  repeated 
what  she  has  already  heard,  she  sees  me  as  a 
sort  of  toy  balloon  on  a  string,  whose  incom 
prehensible  movements  excite  a  pleasurable 
wonder.  As  regularly  as  the  dinner  hour 
comes  around  Ida  asks,  with  that  same  amaz 
ingly  unsophisticated,  interested  look,  if  each 
of  us  will  have  soup.  If  it  were  our  custom 
occasionally  not  to  take  soup,  if  we  had  de 
clined  soup  a  couple  of  times  even,  a  good 
while  ago,  if  even  wre  had  declined  soup  once 
* — but,  as  Mr.  MacKeene  says,  what  could  have 
put  it  into  her  head  that  we  might  not  take 
soup  ?  It  is  the  same  with  dessert,  with  cereal 

[75] 


PEEPS  AT  PEOPLE 

at  breakfast.    I  hardly  know  why  it  is  not  the 
same  with  having  our  beds  made. 

It  is  easy  to  give  Ida  pleasure.  She  has  not 
been  satiated,  perhaps,  with  pleasure.  A  very; 
little  quite  overjoys  her.  I  turn  about  in  my; 
chair  to  reach  a  book,  and  discover  Ida  silently 
dusting  the  furniture.  "Why!  I  didn't  knowj 
you  were  in  here,"  I  say  to  Ida.  Ida  breaks 
into  great  light  at  this  highly  entertaining  sit 
uation.  "Didin  you  know  I  was  in  here !  Didin 
you !"  Her  eyebrows  go  up  with  delight.  Her 
pose  might  be  the  original  of  Miss  Rogson's 
"Merely  Mary  Ann." 


[76] 


XV 


NOT  GULLIBLE,  NOT  HE 


"SiR,"  said  Doctor  Johnson,  "a  fallible  being 
will  fail  somewhere."  So  far  as  penetration, 
at  least,  is  concerned,  this  is  not  true  of  Dean. 
He  is  never  caught  without  his  grains  of  salt. 

Dean  believes  nothing  that  he  reads  in  news 
papers.  He  is  not  caught,  for  one  thing,  be 
lieving  anecdotes  of  celebrated  persons.  These 
anecdotes  are  pretty  stories  yearned  for  by  a 
sentimental  public.  The  public  is  amusing, 
composed  as  it  is  of  simple,  guileless  people 
who  know  nothing  of  the  world.  Newspapers 
are  concoctions  of  press  agents,  for  the  most 

[77] 


PEEPS  AT  PEOPLE 

part — bait  for  the  gullible.  A  citizen  of  the 
word  is  Dean,  and  he  has,  alas!  lost  his  inno 
cence.  This  pleases  him.  You  can't  impose 
on  Dean's  credulity.  He  hasn't  got  any  credu 
lity.  In  this  respect  he  has  much  the  same  ef 
fect  upon  his  company  as  the  Mark  Twain  dog 
that  didn't  have  any  hind  legs  had  upon  the 
mind  of  his  antagonist.  That  dog  was  hardly 
a  pleasure  to  his  opponent.  He  was  baffling. 

It  is  perhaps  a  man's  misfortune  that  he 
should  be  so  without  delusions.  Dean  has 
found  out  there  is  no  Santa  Claus,  in  a  man 
ner  of  speaking,  while  the  rest  of  us  are  yet 
humbugged.  So  while  we  may  be  pleased  with 
our  callings  or  our  hobby-horses,  our  coins,  or 
our  cockle-shells,  our  drums,  our  fiddles,  our 
pictures,  our  talents,  our  maggots  and  our  but 
terflies,  he  can  only  shrug  his  shoulders  and 
depreciate  them  to  the  best  of  his  ability,  say 
ing  that  they  are  very  poor  cockle-shells,  to  be 
sure,  though  no  man  more  than  he  deplores  it 
that  this  is  so.  Though  no  doubt  it  must  be  a 
melancholy  thing  to  feel  so  severely  the  fail 
ings  of  all,  Dean's  cavilings  are  cheerfully 
made  always,  and  they  come  to  us  filtered 
through  a  humorous  nature.  And  to  do  him 
justice,  he  is  whimsically  aware  of  his  own 
178] 


NOT  GULLIBLE,  NOT  HE 

idiosyncrasies,  and  readily  acknowledges  them 
as  he  sees  them,  which  is  in  a  mellow,  kindly 
light.  "Now  I  could  never  make  money,"  he 
says  humorously,  as  it  were.  But  that  is  not 
the  sum  of  life,  he  knows  perhaps  too  well. 

He  sees  the  vanity  of  it  all,  does  Dean.  He 
sees  the  vanity  of  all  useful  endeavor.  He  sees 
the  vanity  most  of  all  perhaps,  of  success. 
What  is  this  success  we  see  around  us,  after  all? 
What  is  the  fame  of  this  man,  this  Mr.  So-and- 
So,  hut  sensationalism?  Of  what  the  success 
of  that  other,  but  cheap  notoriety,  and  a  rich 
wife?  They  are  both  of  them,  very  probably, 
at  heart  as  miserable  as  Dean.  Ah  me!  'tis  a 
profitless  world,  and  there's  no  satisfaction  in 
it  anywhere.  "Though  probably  you  are  hard 
ly  of  an  age  to  see  it  yet,"  says  Dean,  and  he 
smiles  at  the  juvenility  of  ambition.  You  will 
see  it,  however,  when  you  too  have  failed. 

"In  this  age  when  every  man  you  meet  is  a 
genius,"  says  Dean — it  amuses  him  that  he  is 
not  of  the  many — "I  have  really  seen  only  one 
really  great  man,  and  I  have  been  compelled 
to  know  a  good  many  of  the  genuises  too." 
This  remarkable,  unique  gentleman,  it  appears, 
was  an  old  sou'easter  sawbuck  of  a  codger  up 
in  the  backwoods  of  Maine,  where  he  lived  her- 

[79] 


PEEPS  AT  PEOPLE 

mit-wise  in  a  shanty,  being  a  squatter.  When 
Dean  met  him  there  he  felt  instinctively  that 
here  he  was  before  a  man.  Uncle  Eli  was  old: 
he  was  a  trifle  filthy;  he  was  addicted  to  drink; 
and  not  what  you  would  call  much  good  in  any 
way.  He  was  uncouth;  a  man  with  the  bark 
on;  one  of  nature's  noblemen.  He  lacked  cul 
ture,  and  education,  and  intelligence;  but  he 
had  eye-teeth.  Lord!  He  wasn't  polite;  he 
wasn't  learned ;  but  when  it  came  to  downright 
bull-headed  horse-sense  he  knocked  the  socks 
of  all  of  them.  He  was  a  philosopher,  this  old 
B'gosh  half -idiot  wreck.  By  George,  he  was, 
and  a  great  one.  He  reminded  Dean  of  Lin 
coln.  Some  of  his  philosophical  splinters  from 
the  old  rail,  rough  they  were  but  ready,  rather 
laid  over  the  wisdom  of  Hercules  himself.  "Ef 
'n  ol'  hoss  wus  a  Billygoat  mighty  few  Chris 
tians  there  be  'ud  git  to  Heaven."  That  hits 
the  nail  on  the  head,  Dean  reckons. 


[80] 


XVI 
CRAMIS,  PATRON  OF  ART 

"HATE  you  got  any  tobacco?"  I  inquired  of 
jCramis. 

"Sure,"  he  replied,  "I'm  never  without  it." 

He  is  a  slave  to  the  weed,  a  hopeless  smoker. 
He  hands  me  his  pouch ;  the  tobacco  is  a  little 
old  and  mildewed.  When  Cramis  comes  to 
visit  me  he  always  brings  a  most  disreputable 
looking  pipe  along  in  his  mouth,  charred  and 
cold.  This  he  calls  attention  to,  musingly,  as 
it  were,  by  remarking  that  "that  looks  natural." 

"I  shouldn't  have  known  you  without  it,"  I 
answer.  Then  we  are  the  best  of  friends.  An 
old  Swede,  an  engineer  of  some  rare  sort,  a 
whimsical  fellow,  quite  a  character — Cramis  is 
greatly  interested  in  characters — was  much  ad 
dicted  to  his  pipe  (so  runs  Cramis's  story) .  It 
was  a  limb  of  his  body.  He  was  one  of  those 
inveterate  smokers  that  you  find  here  and  there 
about  the  world.  One  day  placards  announc- 

[81] 


PEEPS  AT  PEOPLE 

ing  that  smoking  was  prohibited  among  em 
ployees  in  the  building  were  posted  at  con 
spicuous  places  in  the  mill  where  Olie  was  em 
ployed.  Olie  went  on  smoking.  The  man 
ager  came  through ;  he  paused  at  Olie. 

"Look-a-here,"  he  said,  "don't  you  see  that 
sign?  No  smoking  among  employees  in  this 
building."  Olie  slowly  took  the  pipe  from  his 
mouth,  regarding  it  thoughtfully  in  his  out 
stretched  hand  as  he  blew  a  great  cloud  of  blue 
smoke. 

"Where  my  pipe  goes,"  he  said,  replacing  it 
between  his  teeth,  "I  goes."  You  may  notice 
it:  there  is  something  of  the  same  idiosyn 
crasy  between  that  picturesque  character  and 
Cramis. 

For  all  the  idler  and  the  dilettante  that  he  is, 
no  man  ever  more  conscientiously  attended  to 
business  than  Cramis.  He  is  at  it  early  and 
late.  He  is  very  successful.  Yet  he  knows 
himself  to  be  an  impractical  cuss,  a  dreamer, 
an  aesthetic  visionary.  No  man  so  thoroughly 
reliable  was  ever  before  so  irresponsible. 

On  his  visits  at  my  place,  Cramis  writes  a 
great  quantity  of  letters.  All  globe  trotters 
do  this,  I  suppose,  whether  it  is  necessary  or 
not.  It  is  only  natural.  If  Cramis  did  not, 

[82] 


CRAMIS,  PATRON  OF  ART 

many  of  his  friends  would  not,  no  doubt,  be 
aware  that  he  was  in  Connecticut,  or,  indeed, 
that  he  ever  got  off  the  island  of  Manhattan. 

Though  Cramis  is  by  nature  shrewd,  saving, 
and  methodically  economical,  he  is  very  care 


less  about  money.  He  has  no  more  idea  of  the 
value  of  it  than  Oliver  Goldsmith.  It  is  piti 
ful — yet  lovable. 

Among  Cramis's  curious  circle  of  acquaint 
ances — his  collection  of  acquaintances  is  a  reg 
ular  menagerie,  as  he  so  often  says — was  a 
painter,  a  fellow  twenty-four  years  old  and 
with  nobody  to  support  him.  Cramis  believed, 
after 'carefully  inquiring,  that  the  fellow  had 
talent  and  might  amount  to  something.  He 
loaned  him  money.  The  scoundrel  squandered 
it,  probably;  at  any  rate,  he  bought  no  fame 
with  it.  That  was  a  year  ago,  and  Cramis  is 
eight  dollars  out  of  pocket.  Still,  his  heart  is 

[83] 


PEEPS  AT  PEOPLE 

a  brother  to  genius.  He  consulted  me  on  the 
question  of  the  very  least  amount  upon  which 
a  man  could  live,  the  length  of  time  at  the 
smallest  estimate  wherein  he  could  reasonably 
be  expected  to  attain  greatness,  and  was  for 
setting  the  fellow  up  in  a  studio  elsewhere.  I 
pointed  out  to  Cramis  that  it  might  possibly  be 
years  before  the  hungry  man  became  famous, 
and  he  abandoned  the  idea.  It  was  too  great  a 
risk. 


[84] 


XVII 
BARBER  SHOPS  AWESOME 


To  patronize  barbers'  shops  is  a  trying  aff air- 
Nothing  but  a  crying  need  of  services  obtained 
there  can  drive  one  who  knows  them  well  into 
one  of  them.  When  you  enter  a  barber  shop, 
a  long  row  of  barber's  chairs,  like  a  line  of  guns 
down  the  deck  of  a  man-o'-war,  stretching 
away  in  perspective,  confronts  you.  Three 
barbers,  say,  are  engaged  with  patrons;  and 
they  go  calmly  on.  They  are  unaware  of  your 
existence.  The  rest  have  been  enjoying  news 
papers  and  leisure.  You  interrupt  them;  and 
they  spring,  as  one  man,  each  to  the  head  of  his 

[85] 


PEEPS  AT  PEOPLE 

chair,  and  stand  at  attention.  To  find  such  a 
company  of  well-fed,  well-groomed,  better-men 
than-you-are  suddenly  at  your  service  is  dis 
turbing  ;  to  have  to  insult  all  the  others  in  your 
selection  of  one  is  an  uncomfortable  thought. 
They  are  all  equally  friendly  toward  you;  but 
it  is  impossible  for  them  all  to  shave  you;  you 
must  turn  against  some  of  them.  There  is  no 
retreat  for  you;  you  cannot  turn  around  and 
go  out.  You  choose  the  nearest  man,  as  the 
only  solution:  and  the  others  show  their  dis 
pleasure  by  returning  to  their  seats.  A  fiend 
is  in  this  man  whom  you  have  chosen ;  his  suav 
ity  was  a  diabolical  mask.  He  gloats  in  pub 
licly  humiliating  you.  He  forces  you  to  con 
fess  there  before  his  "gang"  that  you  do  not 
want  anything  but  a  shave.  You  have  brought 
this  man  from  his  newspaper  simply  to  shave 
you!  Now  the  number  of  things  the  barber 
manages  to  do  to  you  against  your  desire  is  a 
measure  of  the  resistant  force  of  your  char 
acter.  You  deny  that  you  need  a  shampoo. 
There  is  no  denying  that  your  hair  is  falling 
out.  There  is  no  denying  that  you  sometimes 
shave  yourself.  You  need  try  to  conceal  noth 
ing  from  this  man.  He  sees  quite  through  you. 
(You  recall  a  certain  Roundabout  Paper.) 

[86] 


BARBER  SHOPS  AWESOME 

He  has  Found  You  Out!  All  you  ask  is  to  be 
allowed  to  go.  He  washes  your  face  for  you 
and  turns  you  out  of  the  chair.  You  pass 
into  the  hands  of  a  boy,  the  same  boy  you  de 
nied  to  polish  your  shoes,  a  boy  that  has  his 
opinions,  who  plays  the  tune  of  "Yankee 
Doodle"  on  you  with  a  whiskbroom  very  much 
as  if  he  snapped  his  fingers  in  your  face;  and 
you  may  go. 


[87] 


XVIII 
MUCH  MARRIED  STRATFORD 

WHAT  an  excellent  thing  it  is  that  Strat 
ford  is  comfortably  married.  He  is  built  for 
marriage.  That  is  the  life  for  him;  a  nice, 
quiet,  wholesome,  unexciting  life  of  home  com 
forts.  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Stratford  dwell  happily 
in  a  little  nest  called  a  cottage.  Here  they  are 
surrounded  by  all  the  sundry  and  divers  chat 
tels  and  effects  incident  to  the  life  they  follow. 


In  order  that  he  may  be  properly  protected 
against  the  elements,  Stratford  is  plentifully 
supplied  with  overshoes,  earbobs,  Storm  King 
chest  protectors,  mufflers,  and  umbrellas.  He 

[88] 


MUCH  MARRIED  STRATFORD 

arms  himself  with  these  instruments  according 
to  the  precise  demand  of  each  different  occa 
sion.  Going  out  into  the  weather  is  an  under 
taking,  and  an  adventure,  accompanied  by  haz 
ardous  risks.  With  Stratford,  preparation  for 
it  is  a  system  and  a  science.  Sometimes,  how 
ever,  Stratford's  judgment  errs  in  the  matter 
of  precaution.  One  day  last  week  Stratford 
went  downtown.  Yielding  to  his  vanity  on  that 
day,  he  recklessly  wore  kid  gloves  instead  of  his 
mittens,  which  were  so  much  more  suited  to  the 
then  prevailing  inclement  weather.  Now  he 
suffers  from  it.  He  has  a  cough,  and  is  com 
pelled  to  keep  his  breast  goose-greased. 

Few  people  realize  the  importance  of  health, 
and  the  relation  of  diet  to  health.  Pork  is  not 
wholesome.  New  potatoes  are  very  hard  to  di 
gest.  Cream  should  never  be  eaten  with 
peaches.  This  pernicious  combination  curdles. 
Stratford  knows  much  more  about  these  things 
than  does  the  writer,  which  is  fortunate  for 
Stratford;  the  writer  has  only  attempted  to 
point  out  and  warn  you  against  a  few  of  the 
most  important,  which  he  learned  from  Strat 
ford.  Stratford  learned  all  this  from  experi 
ence.  Last  evening  at  dinner  Stratford  drank 
two  cups  of  coffee.  He  did  not  sleep  a  wink 

[89] 


PEEPS  AT  PEOPLE 

all  the  night  in  consequence.     Coffee  is  very 
bad  for  the  nerves,  very  bad. 

It  may  be  that  there  are  many  persons  like 
the  writer  in  not  knowing  how  to  serve  coffee. 
The  cream  should  always  be  put  in  the  cup 
first,  then  the  coffee  poured  on.  Though  you 


may  not  be  aware  of  the  fact,  it  absolutely 
ruins  coffee  to  serve  it  any  other  way.  It  is 
better  to  put  sugar  on  oatmeal  after  the  cream 
is  on.  The  writer  does  not  know  why;  but  it 
is  better. 

Though  one  would  hardly  suspect  it,  in  his 
youth  Stratford  was  considerable  of  a  rake. 
He  often  tells  the  story.  It  appears  that  in  a 
spirit  of  reckless  dare-deviltry  on  an  occasion 
Stratford  partook  of  some  spirituous  liquor. 
Now  Stratford  has  a  tolerably  strong  head. 
But  this  wine — or  was  it  cocktail? — proved  al 
most  too  much  for  him.  Ah,  well !  those  wild 
and  lawless  days  are  past  and  gone.  Strat- 

[90] 


MUCH  MARRIED  STRATFORD 
ford  has  reformed,  and  will  not  fill  a  drunk 
ard's  grave.    Xo  one,  we  hope,  respects  Strat 
ford  the  less  for  having  been  a  little  wild. 
We  all  hate  a  milksop,  you  will  agree. 


[91] 


XIX 

A  HUMAN  CASH  REGISTER 

ACROSS  the  table  from  a  lodger  sits  Mr.  Fife. 
Mr.  Fife  is  a  clerk.  This  statement  comprises, 
not  inadequately,  his  memoirs. 

When  a  man  speaks  to  you  of  the  useful 


piece  of  mechanism  called  a  cash  register,  you 
comprehend  him  perfectly.  You  know  what 
a  cash  register  is,  for  what  purpose  it  was 
designed,  how  it  looks,  how  much  approxi 
mately  it  is  worth,  what  it  will  perform,  and 
what  it  will  remain — a  cash  register.  A  cash 
register  could  not  have  been  born  a  toy  bal 
loon,  spent  its  youth  as  a  bicycle,  been  edu 
cated  as  a  pulpit,  have  imprudently  married 

[92] 


A  HUMAN  CASH  REGISTER 

a  footlight,  been  forced  to  obtain  employment 
as  a  cash  register,  but  cherishes  a  secret  am 
bition  to  be  a  typewriter  and  solace  itself  in 
turn  as  a  violin,  a  mug  of  ale,  and  a  tobacco 
pipe.  A  lodger  does  not  say  that  Mr.  Fife  is 
no  better  in  any  way  than  a  cash  register.  A 
mother  nursed  him  at  her  breast,  watched  him 
as  he  slept ;  he  was  somebody's  baby.  A  grown 
man  was  strangely  moved,  probably,  when  he 
was  born.  He  played  somewhere  as  a  child. 
Dirty  little  brothers  and  sisters,  perhaps,  were 
his.  He  was  spanked  and  had  diseases  and 
suffered  and  was  frightened  and  rejoiced. 
Hearts  have  been  glad  when  he  was  near.  One 
or  two  little  girls,  no  doubt,  have  admired  him 
very  much.  Some  woman,  probably  some 
where,  admires  him  still.  A  lodger  does  not 
say  that  Mr.  Fife  has  no  inner  life.  He  does 
not  say  that  the  forces  of  existence  constantly, 
ceaselessly  beating  in  on  this  man  (or  rather 
clerk)  are  not  here  slowly,  inevitably  shaping  a 
moral  character,  this  way  or  that.  But  as  this 
human  life  sits  here  at  Mrs.  Wigger's  board  a 
clerk  is  here,  with  his  past  and  his  future. 

Mr.  Fife  has  a  "furnished  room"  somewhere 
around  on  the  next  street,  and  only  takes  his 
meals  at  Mrs.  Wigger's. 

[93] 


XX 

IT  STANDS  TO  REASON 

ON  the  hotel  porch  a  large,  earnest  man  was 
delivering  the  argument.  He  poised  his  pipe 
in  his  hand ;  and,  moving  forward  from  period 
to  period  with  judicial  deliberation,  choosing 
his  words  with  care,  building  his  sentences  with 
a  nice  regard  for  precision,  he  constructed  his 
exposition  in  logical  sequence.  He  had  time 
at  his  command;  and,  so  he  gripped  his  audi 
ence,  was  in  no  fear  of  interruption.  'Tor  in 
stance,  we  will  take,  for  instance,  just  for  in 
stance,  do  you  understand?  the  little  town  of 
New  York  to  represent  the  whole  country. 
Well,  here  we  have  the  little  town  of  New 

York.  Now,  it  stands  to  reason "  One 

who  chanced  to  overhear  passed  beyond  range. 

But  what  of  the  disquisition  had  been  caught 
gave  rise  to  an  important  reflection.  When 
you  examine  the  subject  you  find  there  are 
three  fundamental  phrases  in  arguing,  in  the 

[94] 


IT  STANDS  TO  REASON 

dexterous  use  of  which  is  largely  constituted  the 
talent  of  the  born  arguer.  These  home-driv 
ing  phrases,  which  are  his  stock  in  trade,  are: 
"It  stands  to  reason,"  "between  man  and  man," 
and  "that's  human  nature."  With  these, 
strongly  used,  one  can  do  almost  anything. 
"Does  capital  meet  labor?"  says  the  born  ar 
guer.  "No;  what  is  the  consequence?  It 
stands  to  reason.  Labor  goes  to  the  wall." 
Or,  again:  "You  take  the  generations  we  have 
now,  the  young  people."  He  smokes  a  while 
in  silence.  "It's  human  nature,"  comes  the 
philosophical  conclusion.  And  when  the  ar 
guer  addresses  his  audience  "as  between  man 
and  man,"  when  in  this  direct,  blunt  way  all 
the  frangipani  of  class  and  convention  is 
cleared  aside,  and  only  their  manhood  stands 
between  them,  he  has  got  at  the  bed-rock  of 
argument. 


[95] 


XXI 

A  THREE-RINGED  CIRCUS 


OUR  friend  MacKeene  is  a  very  interesting 
person.  One  of  his  most  pronounced  char 
acteristics  is  an  assiduous  striving  on  his  part 
to  increase  his  vocabulary.  We  are  always 
made  aware  of  any  of  his  new  acquisitions  in 
this  direction  by  its  frequent  repetition  during 
a  conversation,  the  loving  way  in  which  he  ap 
pears  to  dwell  upon  it,  to  hug  it  to  his  heart, 
allow  it  gradually  to  mount  to  his  throat,  roll 
it  in  his  mouth  to  suck  its  flavor,  to  send  it  forth 
at  length,  to  watch  it  tenderly  and  admiringly 
(like  a  fine  ring  of  tobacco  smoke)  until  it 
loses  itself  in  the  flow  of  speech  that  comes 

[06] 


A  THREE-RINGED  CIRCUS 

after  it.  We  relish  this  new  word  ourselves. 
It  is  like  a  play ;  it  thrills  our  soul,  and  we  sigh 
when  it  is  gone — but  we  know  it  will  come 
again  many  times  before  the  night  is  passed. 

It  has  never  been  our  fortune  to  see  a  man 
that  enjoyed  the  show  of  life  more  than  does 
MacKeene.  He  reads  newspapers  with  a  rel 
ish  that  is  positively  amazing;  he  smacks  his  lips 
over  them;  their  contents  are  to  him  the  head 
iest  romance.  MacKeene  goes  to  the  finest 
theater  in  the  world  every  evening  when  he 
reads  his  penny  paper.  The  anxiety  with 
which  he  awaits  the  account  of  each  new  mur 
der,  swindle,  election,  disaster,  marriage,  or  di 
vorce  of  a  special  publicity,  the  mental  agility 
with  which  he  pounces  upon  it,  the  astonishing 
variety  of  points  of  view  he  can  take  of  the 
tiling,  and  the  application  with  which  he  fol 
lows  through  successive  installments  the  story 
to  the  very  end,  are  delightful  to  behold. 

He  invariably  winds  up  his  observations 
upon  life  with  the  comment  that  "it  is  a  funny 
world ;  such  funny  people  in  it." 

True,  or,  rare  MacKeene!  It  is  a  funny 
world,  and  there  are  such  funny  people  in  it  I 
Everybody  is  queer  but  thee  and  us. 

The  other  evening,  after  he  had  devoured  his 
[97] 


PEEPS  AT  PEOPLE 

newspaper  and  sat  staring  at  the  wall,  we 
started  him  going  by  the  remark: 

"Well,  what's  in  the  paper  to-night,  Mac- 
Keene?" 

"What's  in  the  paper  to-night?"  cried  he. 


^'Everything  is  in  the  paper,  everything — 
worlds  of  it — plays,  skits,  comedies,  farces, 
tragedies,  burlesques :  material  for  the  student, 
the  historian,  the  author,  the  poet,  the  moralist, 
the  humorist,  much  matter  to  be  fast  applauded 
for  its  slapstick  good  nature,  and  some  bowed 
with  leaden-eyed  despair,  some  replete  with 
rosy  schemes,  some  of  waxing  hopes  and  sweet, 
unprofitable  pipe  dreams,  some  of  many 
moneys,  births,  deaths,  marriages  and  giving 
in  marriages,  loves,  hatreds,  wisdoms,  follies, 
crimes,  vices  and  virtues,  heroisms,  hypocrisies, 
arts,  commercialism,  surprises,  bacchanals, 
hard  exigencies,  and  poor  resorts  and  petty 
contrivances.  Life — ah!  that's  the  boy — life 
and  all  its  train  of  consequences,  ringing  in  my 

[98] 


A  THREE-RINGED  CIRCUS 

ears,  dancing  before  my  eyes,  crowding  on  the 
senses,  a  three-ringed  circus  in  full  blast,  a 
roary,  noisy,  bloomin'  spectacle,  a  mammoth 
aggregation  of  prodigious  eye-openers  and  un 
paralleled  splendors,  with  gorgeous  hippo 
drome  under  perfect  subjection,  and  a  Casino 
Wonderland  Musee  of  queer,  peculiar,  wild, 
domestic,  instructing,  funny,  beautiful,  hor 
rible,  and  revolting  curios  and  monstrosities 
of  land,  air,  and  sea." 


[99] 


XXII 
SNAPSHOTS  IN  X-RAY 


WHAT  a  terrible  thing  is  the  X-ray! 

Terrible? 

Listen.  Contemplate  the  prospect  of  this 
invention's  being  brought  into  popular  use,  so 
that,  say,  anybody  might  have  such  an  attach 
ment  to  his  kodak.  In  such  case,  science,  which 
has  been  so  powerful  a  force  in  refining  the 
civilization  of  man,  would  by  one  stroke  lay 
waste  the  whole  of  her  handiwork.  Civilized 
society  would  collapse. 

A  German  professor  at  one  time  went  pretty 
well  into  the  subject  of  clothes  and  the  philos 
ophy  thereof,  and  reasoned  among  other  things 
[100] 


SNAPSHOTS  IN  X-RAY 

that  society  would  instantly  dissolve  without 
them.  Nothing  could  more  vividly  bear  out 
this  gentleman  than  contemplation  of  the  pos 
sibilities  of  the  Roentgen  ray.  It  is  an  exciting 
prospect.  A  press  of  the  button,  and  there 
would  be  Herr  Teufelsdrockh's  "straddling 
Parliament."  But  a  thousand  times  more  gro 
tesque  :  gentlemen  stripped  not  only  of  the  tai 
lored  habiliment  of  the  bodies,  the  symbols  of 
their  gentility,  as  it  were,  but  of  the  fleshly  gar 
ments  of  their  frame,  laying  bare  their  mor 
tality.  And  humorously,  witheringly,  for 
among  the  other  distinctions  man  is  said  to 
possess  above  his  brethren  the  beasts,  being  the 
only  animal  that  laughs,  and  so  forth,  it  is  cer 
tainly  true  that  of  all  creation  he  has  the  fun 
niest  skeleton.  It  would  be  the  end.  No  can 
didate  for  public  office  would  dare  to  come 
forth  upon  the  platform.  What  stout  lady 
could  give  a  party? 

Unless,  indeed,  as  would  probably  result, 
for  the  preservation  of  society  the  use  and  car 
rying  of  kodaks  would  be  regulated,  like  the 
carrying  of  revolvers,  by  statute.  To  photo 
graph  a  gentleman  or  lady  on  the  street  would 
be  a  criminal  deed  carrying  a  penalty  of  twenty 
years'  imprisonment.  For  though  ladies 
[101] 


PEEPS  AT  PEOPLE 

blessed  by  nature  might  not,  in  this  lingerie- 
less,  tube-skirt  age,  shrink  from  further  per 
ception  of  their  loveliness,  it  is  doubtful  if 
any  man  could  make  love  to  a  woman  after 
having  seen  an  effigy  of  her  skeleton.  To  snap 
the  President  would  be  equivalent,  in  the  eyes 
of  the  law,  to  assassinating  him.  To  take  an 
X-ray  photograph  of  a  fashionable  assembly 
would  be,  like  discharging  a  dynamite  bomb  in 
the  midst,  punishable  with  death. 


[102] 


XXIII 
BACHELOR  REMINISCENCES 

SOMETIMES  my  thoughts  carry  me  away 
from  my  solitary  strife  with  the  world;  back 
to  my  boyhood,  when  all  men  were  not  thieves 
and  scoundrels,  as  they  are  now;  back  to  my 
old  home  and  my  family,  where  we  loved  one 
another  and  did  not,  lynx-eyed,  watch  for  a 
grip  upon  our  neighbors'  throats  nor  count  our 
every  friend  as  a  possibility  of  our  own  ad 


vancement,  and  every  favor  we  did  another  a 
business  investment. 

In  one  such  mood  as  this,  on  an  evening,  I 
was  pleased,  upon  answering  the  knock  at  my 
door,  to  usher  in  my  neighboring  lodger  Har- 
[103] 


PEEPS  AT  PEOPLE 

rison.  In  reminiscence  we  would  renew  our 
youth;  and  to  that  purpose  I  started  him  off 
upon  the  desired  track. 

Harrison  poses  as  something  of  a  philoso 
pher,  and  he  began  with  some  of  his  customary 
rot. 

"Well,"  said  he,  "I  have  never  known  a  man 
that  talked  at  all  upon  the  subject  who  did 
not  follow  a  calling  which  was  the  most  trying 
of  all  those  at  which  men  labor  in  this  world, 
who  did  not  have  a  most  remarkably  hard  time 
in  early  life,  and  who  did  not  fondly  imagine 
that  he  was  a  very  bad  boy  in  his  youth.  These, 
I  take  it,  are  the  three  most  familiar  hallucina 
tions  in  life.  I  am  a  victim  to  them  myself. 
But  I  shall  not  regale  you  with  them  to-night. 
I  was  thinking  of  my  own  boyhood,  the  wick 
edness  of  it,  and  the  happiness.  Ah !  boyhood, 
that  is  the  happy  time ;  girlhood  may  be,  too — 
but  I  doubt  it. 

"These  many  years  have  I  been  like  poor  Joe 
in  'Bleak  House,'  I  must  keep  moving  along; 
but  when  I  was  a  boy  I  had  a  home.  A  strange 
word  it  is  to  me  now.  I  am  reminded  of  the 
old  vaudeville  'stunt':  Any  old  place  I  hang 
my  hat  is  home,  sweet  home,  to  me.  I  follow 
[104] 


BACHELOR  REMINISCENCES 

a  trunk  about  the  world,  and  a  devil  of  a  globe 
trotter  of  a  trunk  it  is. 

"But  when  I  was  a  boy,"  continued  Harri 
son,  the  lines  in  his  face  softened — and  he 
somehow  just  now  looked  very  like  a  boy — "I 
had  a  home;  there  the  board  was  always  paid." 
The  lines  came  back  in  his  face  for  an  instant, 
then  faded  away  again.  "There  in  the  winter 
it  was  always  warm,"  he  said,  looking  very 
hard  at  my  small  fire.  "There  we  had  great 
feasting  and  drinking."  I  could  not  but  no 
tice  how  spare  he  was  now.  "There  were  noise 
arid  romping,"  and  the  softness  of  his  voice 
now  emphasized  the  extreme  desertedness  of 
my  chambers.  "There  were  brothers  and  sis 
ters.  Did  you  ever  have  a  brother?"  he  asked 
me  rather  suddenly. 

I  replied  that  I  never  did. 

"Or  a  sister?"  he  inquired. 

I  said  "No." 

He  looked  at  me  with  a  sort  of  annoying 
pity. 

"I  hope,"  he  said  rather  irritatedly,  "that 
you  had  a  mother?" 

I  replied  that  I  had  had,  but  I  did  not  see 
why  we  should  fight  about  it. 

"Now,  don't  lose  your  temper,  old  man," 
[105] 


PEEPS  AT  PEOPLE 

said  Harrison.  ''You're  such  an  incorrigible 
old  dope,  you  know,  such  a  cynical,  confirmed 
old  bachelor  of  a  bohemian,  I  mean;  so  con 
tented  with  this  lonesome,  vagabond  life,  that  I 
hardly  think  you  ever  had  a  real,  happy,  whole 
some  boyhood  home.  By  the  way,  did  you  ever 
have  a  boyhood?"  he  asked  with  something  very 
near  to  a  sneer. 


"Now,  look  here,"  I  said,  "if  you  had  such  an 
insufferable  home,  why  didn't  you  stay  there 
and  make  your  own  family  miserable  instead 
of  wandering  about  the  world  bemoaning  your 
fate,  wishing  yourself  back  there,  and  insulting 
people  who  are  not  moved  by  ties  of  relation 
ship  to  be  tolerant  with  your  spleen?  And 
who  won't  be,"  I  added,  rising. 

"You're  a  fool,"  said  Harrison,  as  he  banged 
the  door. 


[106] 


XXIV 
A  TESTIMONIAL 


FOR  years  I  was  a  great  sufferer  from  in 
somnia.  At  one  time  this  dread  scourge  had 
so  fastened  its  terrible  fangs  upon  me  that  I 
could  scarcely  walk.  My  body  became  one 
mass  of  sleeplessness;  I  tried  many  remedies, 
but  without  avail,  and  my  friends  had  all  given 
me  up  for  dead  when  by  chance  from  a  mere 
acquaintance  I  heard  of  this  great  cure  which 
I  would  recommend  to  all  who  are  afflicted  as 
I  was. 

I  remember  with  horror  the  tortures  I  used 

to  endure  in  agony  as  I  tossed  to  and  fro  on 

the  hot  pillow,  going  over  in  my  fevered  mind 

interminably  the  formulas  of  the  so-called  re- 

[107] 


PEEPS  AT  PEOPLE 

liefs  from  this  peerless  disease.  An  uncon 
scionable  number  of  times  I  numbered  a  round 
of  sheep  over  a  stile.  I  counted  up  to  ten,  over 
and  over  again ;  and  then  up  to  fifteen,  and  then 
twenty,  twenty-five,  thirty,  fifty,  only  to  craze 
myself  with  the  thought  of  the  futility  of  this 
lunacy.  I  heard  my  dollar  watch  tick  on  the 
dresser,  until  in  madness  I  arose  and  placed  it 
on  the  restraining  pad  of  a  clothes-brush.  I 
heard  the  clock  in  the  next  room  relentlessly 
tell  the  passing  hours;  I  heard  a  neighboring 
public  clock  follow  it  through  the  watches  of 
the  night.  I  heard  my  happy  neighbor  snore. 
I  heard  the  sound  of  rats  near  by,  and  the 
creaking  of  floors,  and  the  voice  of  the  wind. 
I  tried  bathing  my  feet  before  going  to  bed.  I 
tried  eating  a  light  lunch.  I  tried  intoxicat 
ing  liquors.  But  always  I  stared  through  the 
blackness  of  the  fearful  night  until  an  eerie 
color  tinged  my  window,  and  then  the  dawn 
came  up  like  thunder  across  the  bay. 

It  was  when  my  spirit  had  become  worn 
through  my  body  like  elbows  through  the 
sleeve  of  an  old  coat  that  I  heard  the  remark 
able  recipe  for  insomnia:  Think  of  the  top  of 
your  head.  That  is  what  I  was  told  to  do. 
"Think  of  the  top  of  your  head,"  I  said  to 
[108] 


A  TESTIMONIAL 

myself  with  some  disdain  in  the  awful  grip  of 
the  night;  "now  how  in  thunder  do  you  think 
of  the  top  of  your  head?'' 

"Do  you  think  of  your  hair?"  I  asked,  turn 
ing  my  eyeballs  upward  in  their  sockets.  "Do 
you  think  of  that  lightly  hidden  baldness?" 
striving  to  put  my  mind,  so  to  say,  on  the  top 
of  my  head.  "How  the  Dickens-can-you- 

think-of "  but  a  drowsy  numbness  pained 

my  sense  as  though  of  hemlock  I  had  drunk, 
or  emptied  some  dull  opiate  to  the  drains  one 
minute  past,  and  Lethewards  had  sunk.  And 
I  dreamed  that  quite  plainly,  as  though  it  were 
some  other  fellow's,  I  saw  the  top  of  my  head. 


1109] 


XXV 

FRAGRANT  WITH  PERFUME 

MR.  DUFF  is  the  tenant  of  the  second  floor 
front.  His  wife  has  been  away.  Mr.  Duff 
himself  may  be  encountered  about  in  the  halls. 
He  is  a  large  man  with  a  considerable  girth 
and  a  face  that  one  knows  to  be  youthful  for 
his  age;  he  cannot  be  under  thirty. 

Recently  the  second  floor  hall  became  fra 
grant  with  the  odor  of  perfume.  Mrs.  Duff, 
presumably,  had  returned.  Yes,  Mrs.  Duff 
was  at  the  telephone.  She  calls,  "Hello!"  very 
sweetly,  in  two  syllables.  Mr.  Duff's  first 
name,  it  appears,  is  Walter,  pronounced  by 
his  doting  wife  also  in  two  syllables,  "Wal 
ter."  Mrs.  Duff  bleats,  it  seems,  in  two  syl 
lables.  Mr.  Duff's  middle  name  evidently  is 
Hon-ey." 

Mrs.  Duff  said  over  the  telephone  that  she 

"had  been  ba-ad."    She  said  it,  or,  so  sweetly. 

She  had,  she  said,  taken  a  little  walk  and  had 

stayed  "too  long"  and  she  had  been  away  when 

[110] 


FRAGRANT  WITH  PERFUME 

he  had  called  her  up.  But  she  had  had  the 
"best  little  time."  She  was  going  to  work 
now,  "oh!  so  ha-rd."  She  was  going  to  clean 
out  the  bureau  drawers  and  "that  little  box," 
and  unpack  her  trunk  and  put  away  her  things. 
No,  she  would  be  careful  not  to  overwork  her 
self.  She  would  see  him,  Walter  Honey  Duff, 
when  he  came  home  from  work.  "Good-by, 
little  boy,"  she  said. 


Then  she  called  up  a  creamery.  She  wanted 
the  creamery  to  send  her,  please,  a  pint  of  milk, 
and  the  smallest  jar  it  had  of  cream  cheese. 
How  soon  could  those  be  sent,  please?  Oh-h! 
not  till  then?  Well,  she  supposed  she  would 
have  to  wait. 

The  second  floor  hall  is  fragrant  with  the 
odor  of  perfume. 


XXVI 

WOULDN'T  LOOK  'AT  HIM 


"THEY  say,"  remarked  the  portly  man  with 
several  double  chins  on  the  back  of  his  neck, 
"that  the  Duke  is  over  in  the  Library." 

"I  wouldn't  walk  across  the  street  to  see 
him,"  said  a  shabby  individual,  helping  himself 
to  a  cracker. 

"He's  no  better  than  any  other  man,"  said 
the  bar-boy. 

"I  wouldn't  look  at  him  if  they  brought  him 
in  to  me,"  announced  an  aggressive-looking 
character. 

Now  this  was  a  remark  rich  in  pictorial  sug- 
[112] 


WOULDN'T  LOOK  AT  HIM 

gestion.  It  was  eloquent  with  dramatic  evo 
cation.  One  instantly  imagines  the  striking 
scene;  the  duke  is  dragged  in;  the  aggressive- 
looking  character  is  called  upon  to  look  at  him; 
this  he  refuses  to  do. 

"He  breathes  the  same  kind  of  air  we  do, 
don't  he?"  pointedly  inquired  the  shabby  indi 
vidual. 

"I  guess  that's  right  enough,  too!"  exclaimed 
the  bar-boy. 


[113] 


XXVII 

CONNUBIAL  FELICITY 

I'VE  got  a  fine  wife,  too.  I  tell  you,  Bob, 
there's  nothin'  better  can  happen  to  a  feller 
than  to  get  the  right  woman.  I  don't  care  for 
battin'  around  any  more  now.  Nothin'  I  like 
any  better  than  to  go  home  to  my  flat  at  night, 
take  off  my  shoes  and  put  on  my  slippers,  and 
listen  to  my  wife  play  the  piano.  My  wife  is 
musical,  vocal  and  instrumental.  Her  vocal  is 
on  a  par  with  her  instrumental.  I  like  music. 
I  always  said  if  ever  I  got  married  I'd  marry 
a  wife  that  was  musical.  I  ain't  educated  in 
music,  exactly,  but  I've  an  ear.  A  feller  told 
me, — Doc.  Hoff,  a  mighty  smart  man,  I'd  like 
you  to  know  him,  his  talk  sometimes  it  would 
take  a  college  professor  to  understand  it, — he 
says  to  me,  "I'm  no  phrenologist  but  I  can  see 
you've  got  an  ear  for  music." 

My  wife  is  an  aristocrat.  When  I  married 
her,  Thunder!  I  had  no  polish,  that  is  to 
[114] 


CONNUBIAL  FELICITY 

speak  of.  You  know  that,  Bob.  My  talk  was 
the  vernacular.  My  wife's  an  Episcopalian. 
She  asked  me  if  I  had  any  objection  to  the 
Episcopal  ceremony  for  marrying.  I  said  I 
didn't  have  no  religion;  anything  would  suit 
me  so  long  as  it  was  legal.  I  had  fifteen  hun 
dred  dollars  to  the  good.  I  don't  know  how  I 
come  to  have  it.  I  oughtn't  to  have,  by  rights. 
Some  of  these  book  makers  ought  to  have  had 
it,  accordin'  to  the  life  I  led.  But  I  did  have 
it,  anyhow.  I  took  three  hundred  dollars  and 
got  a  sweet  of  drawing  room  furniture — Louie 
fourteenth,  or  fifteenth,  they  call  it,  I  forget 
which.  Then  I  got  a  mahogany  table,  solid 
parts  through,  for  our  dining  room,  and  some 
what  they  call  Chippendale  chairs.  I  got  a 
darn  good  library  up  there,  too. 

My  wife  don't  say  "and  so  forth";  she  says 
"and  caetera." 


[115] 


XXVIII 
A  FRIEND,  INDEED 

HE  was  a  sturdy-looking  little  man,  with  a 
square,  honest  face,  and  an  upright  manner, 
to  put  it  so.  He  seemed  to  be  a  Swede.  His 
companion  had  something  the  look  of  Mr. 
Heep,  and  he  wore  a  cap. 

"Yes,  sir,  Will,"  said  his  companion,  "I'd 
like  to  see  you  own  that  piece  of  property.  I 
would.  If  you  owned  that  piece  of  property, 
Will,  then  you  see  you'd  have  something. 
.You'd  have  something,  Will.  Something  you 
could  always  call  your  own,  Will." 

"Do  you  think  it's  good  land?"  said  Will. 

"Oh,  yes,"  said  his  companion;  "that's  a  very 
fine  piece  of  land,  Will.  I  know  every  bit  of 
it.  I've  worked  up  there,  Will." 

"Rocky?"  asked  Will. 

"Oh,  no,  Will;  there's  hardly  a  rock  on  it." 

"How  far  now  does  it  come  down  this  way?" 
inquired  Will  musingly. 
[116] 


A  FRIEND,  INDEED 

"Down  the  hill,  Will?"  asked  his  compan 
ion,  with  great  attention. 

"Yes,"  said  Will. 

"Well,  now  as  to  that,"  said  the  other,  cast 
ing  his  face  upward  in  thought,  "I  couldn't 
just  exactly  say." 

"Down  to  the  oak  tree,  don't  it?"  said  Will. 

"That's  right,  Will!"  exclaimed  the  other, 
in  delighted  recognition  of  the  fact.  "Down  to 
the  oak  tree,  Will.  You're  right,  Will." 

"And  how  far  would  you  say,"  asked  Will 
thoughtfully,  "does  it  run  back  in?" 

"Run  back  in,  Will?"  said  the  other  as 
though  in  surprise.  "Well,  now  you  know, 
Will,"  shaking  his  head  in  doubt,  "it's  been 
some  time  since  I  was  up  there,  Will." 

"It  goes  back  as  far  as  the  big  rock,  don't 
you  think?"  said  Will,  thinking  hard. 

"Back  to  the  big  rock,  Will!"  cried  the  other 
eagerly.  "That's  right,  Will.  You're  right! 
Pack  to  the  big  rock,  Will!" 

"What's  the  name  of  those  people  who  own 
the  land  just  this  way?"  Will  asked,  looking 
hard  into  his  mind. 

"Well,  now,  Will,  I  can't  just  bring  to  mind 
the  name  of  those  people,"  answered  the  other, 
[117] 


PEEPS  AT  PEOPLE 

looking  equally  hard,  apparently,  into  his  own 
mind. 

"Smithers,  ain't  it?"  said  Will,  gropingly. 

"Smithers  is  the  name!"  ejaculated  the  oth 
er.  "You're  right,  Will!  That's  it!  Smith 
ers!  You're  right,  Will!  Nice  people,  too, 
Will!" 

"Well,  I  don't  think  though  that  I'll  get 
that  land,  after  all,"  said  Will,  in  the  manner 
of  a  man  who  has  at  length  arrived  at  a  deci 
sion. 

"Well,  of  course,  Will,"  said  his  compan 
ion,  nodding  his  head  up  and  down,  "property 
is  a  great  care.  I  don't  know  that  you're  not 
right,  Will.  Property's  a  great  care,  Will; 
you're  right  about  that,  Will.  You  can  do 
better,  Will.  You're  right  about  that!" 


[118] 


THIS  BOOK  IS  DUE  ON  THE  LAST  BATE 
STAMPED  BELOW 

AN    INITIAL    FINE    OF     25     CENTS 

WILL  BE  ASSESSED  FOR  FAILURE  TO  RETURN 
THIS  BOOK  ON  THE  DATE  DUE.  THE  PENALTY 
WILL  INCREASE  TO  SO  CENTS  ON  THE  FOURTH 
DAY  AND  TO  $1.OO  ON  THE  SEVENTH  DAY 
OVERDUE. 


m 


DEC     7    1932 
FEB10 


1933 


APR   5    19 
201933 

8    1933 
101934 
MAY     3  1936 


LD  21-50m-8,-32 


Holliday.  Robert  Cortes 
'•'  people 


H739 
E 


UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA  LIBRARY 


